Feel the Burning Light: The 99th Hunger Games
by FinitelyInfinite
Summary: To enter the arena of the Hunger Games is to burn brighter than even Icarus. SYOT: Closed!
1. Feel the Burning Light

_"Never regret thy fall,_  
 _O Icarus of the fearless flight_  
 _For the greatest tragedy of them all_  
 _Is never to feel the burning light."_

 _\- Oscar Wilde_

 **First of all, a note: This is gonna be one of those stories that take place in the future after The Hunger Games and all, so I'm going to say that the rules were changed so two people can win every time. To me it just makes more sense for romances to happen when people think that they both can escape, and I love a bit of romance here and there.**

 **A snippet of a story for site rules purposes:**

* * *

The Capitol was bustling at nighttime, people finding ways to occupy themselves before the Games began. The anticipation was in the air, social circles using their time to mingle to speculate about the Games. Would District One take another win this year? Would it be Two's turn to redeem themselves? Would Four step up to the plate? Or maybe one of the other districts would break the Career districts' four-year streak. The reapings were coming up. Already the escorts of the farer-away districts were beginning their travels. The Games were about to begin.

* * *

 **Rules:**

All righty then. The form for this is on my profile. No review-submitted characters will be accepted. You must submit them via PM.

You may reserve spots. Reservation requests should be sent via PM and will be held for three days without further contact at most. If something comes up and you can't get it in, just message me so I know you're still working on the form and I'll understand.

In this day and age (and especially in the future's day and age where this obviously takes place) it just doesn't make sense to have a story full of straight white cis abled characters. Please make it interesting for me. If you want to do something I might not know about, I'm more than willing to do research. I honestly love researching things like mental illnesses and diseases. Give me gay characters, give me trans characters, give me autistic or blind or otherwise disabled/mentally ill characters. Not all characters are going to be diverse, I understand, so you don't have to, but I would love you if you did.

You can submit up to 4 characters, but the fourth should be a bloodbath.

I'm not going to put a system in place where you have to review or I'll kill your character, but I would be much more inclined to keep them alive if you gave me feedback on the story.

However, every time someone reviews to a chapter (only one per chapter counts) they get 25 credits for sponsor stuff. The submitter of a character automatically gets 300 credits. To give you an idea of what that'll get you, here's what I have so far for the sponsoring system. Feel free to review with ideas!

-Small food items (bread, a bottle of water, etc): 150 credits

-Large food items (meals, etc): 500 credits

-Small survival tools (blanket, empty canteen, empty bag): 50 credits

-Large survival tools (flint and steel, knife): 200 credits

Open to suggestions for more, of course! I haven't ever done this system before and it's been a while since I've written anything like this.


	2. Deemed Just

_"The highest reach of injustice is: to be deemed just when you are not."_

 _-Plato_

 **This chapter is I guess just to flex my writing a bit and because I feel like I posted my story at an inopportune time last night, so also to get more views lol. So anyway, make sure you read my rules last chapter and then go to my profile and make/reserve a tribute! And don't be afraid to leave a review if you like my writing or if you have ideas for the sponsoring system**

* * *

The Capitol was splattered with color, a fact which everyone knew. The streets were tinged a pastel blue or a bright pink, the signs were neon green or a halting red, and the people were a mess of colors, like paint splattered haphazardly with no regard to what actually looked good. To them, this array of colors, this splattering, was something called _fashion._ They reveled in their hair so mistreated with products, curlers, straighteners, sprays, colors, _fashion_ , that wigs were as accepted as they were when syphilis still ran rampant centuries ago. Their hair could not keep up with the _fashion_ , and neither could their bodies. They wanted them painted, altered, slim, fat, noticeable. They were so colorful, in cheetah prints and bright polka dots and lace and fur and sheer.

An entire city painted in so much color, and yet they were all awash with crimson. Blood poured down the city streets like it was a flood, a tsunami that washed away everything else. It rained from the sky, and the clouds, once gray and looming but innocent, were tinted with that red that they poured down to the citizens, who walked through the downpour, seeing only those vibrant blues and tantalizing oranges and beautiful purples. There were children who were born with their hands stained red with murder, innocent gossiping men and women who went about their daily lives whose teeth were coated with the stuff, who showed these horrible, bloody things in bared laughs, in wide-eyed grins. And each year, they turned on their televisions for more of the stuff. They were vampirish beings, living off this blood, coating themselves on purpose and shouting about it like it was a status symbol, betting on the innocent creatures who walked into domes where blood would be splattered on them, or their blood would be given away to these Capitolites.

Of course, there were those of power, who were so red it was hard to tell where their blood stopped and the rest of it began, and these people in power felt simply divine with the amount of crimson weighing them down. They were open, beating hearts without ribcages to protect them, and yet there was nothing that could penetrate that layer that they had washed themselves in.

Twenty-four shielded hearts would soon walk together and slaughter each other like they were livestock, and those covered in blood would stand before this human sacrifice, blessing it for the gods who stood behind the colors and the spilling of blood. But maybe one day the gods of the crimson red or the muddy brown or the forest green would find their way into the Capitol, and they would strip this coating of blood away so the citizens could see each other plainly, could see how stained they had become, could see their bared teeth and animalistic laughter.

And oh what a sight it would be awaiting them.


	3. The Rain

_"One can find so many pains when the rain is falling."_

 _\- John Steinbeck_

* * *

 **Trigger warning for this chapter: Elysium is bulimic so if that's upsetting you might not want to read her section**

 **So first off, what does everyone think of sponsor systems? I've realized people might not like them and I've already gotten 7 reviews on a prequel chapter lol. Plus I remembered how lazy I am lmao but if people like sponsor systems I'll keep it in. And anyway your tribute's life won't be based on the sponsor system, just if I like them and I think they're capable of winning (and I know you're still reading, bc I wouldn't want someone who's left to win) they'll make it far. Let me know**

 **Also, because reapings are long and repetitive, I'm going to do 4 reaping chapters. Everyone will get a reaping perspective, but some characters might get the morning before leading up to, some might get during and the Justice Building. If I think your character has a special reaction/reason to volunteer, you'll probably get the latter, and if I really like the dynamic they have with their families, they might have the former. And some might be longer than others, but don't take that to heart. I'm having major writer's block right now so it might take me longer than normal to get accustomed to characters who are different from what I write all the time (there are a couple characters who are really close to my own characters in the novel I'm writing, so naturally, they might be longer because I fall into their personalities quicker).**

 **Also forgive me if I accidentally use the wrong pronouns for Acario sometimes. I go by they/them pronouns sometimes and I'm constantly accidentally misgendering myself so no harm intended! Just my silly brain won't let me remember to type they.**

 **And one more thing: I wanna say I'm sorry for the long wait! I've been sort of hyperfixating on Spider-Man since homecoming came out and when I hyperfixate Nothing Else Matters so I just... forgot that other things existed for a bit haha. The rest of the updates definitely won't take so long!**

 **Thank you to Peony Pierce for Elysium, Elim9 for Puck, Golden Moon Huntress for Acario and Atalanta, Too Old For This Shtick for Soren, and david12341 for May. I hope I do your characters justice!**

* * *

 **Elysium Worthing (17)** — **District One**

Elysium woke up on the morning of the reaping to a soft tapping and the smell of strawberries. She blinked against the light streaming in from her window, trying to be awake enough to find the source of the noise. When her eyes were accustomed to the sun, she found her brother sitting at the chair next to her nightstand, drumming his fingers impatiently. They locked eyes for a moment, and his face transformed into a grin.

"Morning," said someone else in the room—Papa, one of her fathers. He and Dad were sitting on the side of the bed, both waiting for her with anticipation written all over their faces, and with a bowl of strawberries in Dad's hands. "You should start getting ready. Dad made breakfast."

"For fuck's sake, why can't District Twelve go first?" she groaned.

"Language," Dad said.

"Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Papa." She buried her face in her pillow, finding that it was all too early to be going to the reaping. "To be fair, it is my day."

Papa ruffled her hair and Dad sat the bowl of strawberries on the night stand, and the both of them stood up. "Your breakfast will get cold if you don't wake up soon. And I'm sure you want to look nice, so get dressed."

She nodded, though she didn't know if there was enough time in the world for her to look nice. But she could certainly put on fancy clothing and braid her hair and pretend that she wasn't so bloated and disgusting that she was sure the Capitolites would wrinkle their noses the moment she walked onstage.

They walked out of the room, but her brother lingered. She wondered for a moment if he was jealous of the chance she had here, but her senses came back to her quickly. He had stopped training for the Games a while ago; the "risks" didn't outweigh the reward, or something. It wasn't something she could fully understand, but she knew he wasn't the only one from their district who was content to watch the Games from afar. She didn't blame him, even if it had always been her dream to walk out of the arena victorious one day.

"Are you excited?" he asked finally.

She shrugged. "I'm… happy."

He left the room after their dads, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stared at the bowl of strawberries for a long moment and let out a long breath. Strawberries were her favorite. She took one and ate half.

She let pride from the night before fill her arms and her legs so that she might walk like a normal person and not the volunteer from District One. This was the last morning she had with her parents and her brother before she couldn't focus on Elysium Worthing, adopted girl with two loving dads and an obnoxious but loving little brother. When she walked up on the stage today, she would be Elysium Worthing, tribute, contender.

"I'm so proud of you," Papa said when she sat down at the table. He reached out and clasped her hand in one of his. She smiled a bit and looked down at the patterns on the table. Dad wasn't unsupportive, but Papa was always the one to vie for her going to the Games more than Dad. When she told him last night that it was her, he had thrown his fist into the air and laughed.

"Of course it's you, Ely," he had said, and she couldn't help but grin even at the memory of her dads hugging her, and her brother laughing at the commotion.

Maxon was already eating away, glancing between her and their dads. They had talked for a long time last night, and that was part of the reason why she felt like the bags under her eyes were horribly pronounced. She wouldn't have traded it for more sleep, though, not right before she was leaving. There weren't many people who she felt comfortable speaking so much to, and she would miss the conversations she occasionally had with him. For a kid two years younger than her, he seemed pretty mature.

But you couldn't tell from the way he acted some of the time around his other friends. She could already hear them the moment they saw each other at the reaping this morning. They would be giddy and loud, as if it was the first time they'd seen each other in years, old friends separated by time and circumstance, reunited miraculously and clapping each other on the back in the way that boys tended to do. That would be something that she would never understand about boys, and she didn't know if it was something that they could explain either.

"Now, you promise me to be strong in the arena, Ely," Dad said when he sat down with her plate and his own. "You promise me to come home."

She smiled at him, and for a moment once again, it didn't feel like the world was trying to divest itself of her burdens. "I will, Dad."

"And you promise to kick some ass if you have to," Papa told her, reaching out and taking her hand. Her first instinct was almost to tear it away and complain about how she was too old for handholding, but she relaxed and remembered that the reaping was all about her, but this morning was all about them.

"I will, Papa."

She looked up at the clock and saw that it was only seven-thirty. There was still an hour before the reaping and they had no commute—not like the factory workers who lived in the poorer sector, those who had to catch the train early in the morning to make it to the town square on time. She would hate to be them. She felt like waking up at seven was already far too early.

Over breakfast, she listened to her dads talking about what they would do when she came back a victor. They had always talked about quitting their jobs and living a life in the lap of luxury, but it was always jokingly. Papa's jewelry business was his life, behind only Elysium and Maxon, and he loved having that drive, having that to push him forward. And Dad was already home a lot as it was, but he liked his job as well. Styling hair part time was the life that he'd made for himself. She would be happy to make everyone in her family rich and proud, but this was life was one she was making on her own.

"Which house would you want?" Maxon asked, looking at her.

"I don't know what all the houses in the Victors' Village look like," she said. She had seen some, but she hadn't studied them. Most of what she had seen was from TV anyway, seeing the other victors living there, and obviously the houses that she had seen from that were occupied.

The Victors' Village in District One was one of the biggest, she was sure. The number of victors grew quicker than the old victors died off, and the suicide rate amongst victors in other districts didn't allow growth like in districts like One and Two. She couldn't fathom how any victor would want to off themselves after finally proving that their worth, but she supposed that not every person who went into the Hunger Games was looking to prove something to themselves and to the world. Maybe she shouldn't have been either; maybe her journey was supposed to be about bringing pride back to her family and her district, but she couldn't help but feel like the only thing that would make her feel at home in her skin and in her head was the approval of the nation.

Elysium looked at the window and for a moment pictured that it was the window of her house in the Victors' Village. For some reason, in this short little daydream, she felt like the sun should be brighter there. The sky was bluer, a soft and inviting color, cloud-free, and the window was open to let in a breeze. It wasn't warm enough for the air-conditioner. It was comfortable. She and Maxon helped Dad with his garden out back when he asked them to, or if they wanted to spend time with him. Their house now was nice, and they already had a garden and had always had trees to climb as children for the games they would play. But the house they would have in the Victors' Village would say We are someone.

What would she be feeling this morning had last night not happened? Had last night not gone her way? She had struggled through her training year after year—not that she was bad, but everyone was so good. She felt like the cliche thing that Careers said was that they went through training until they "forgot everything else," but she didn't forget everything else. She still had school, because if she wasn't a Career, she wasn't going to be uneducated. She still had her family, and while hers was easygoing, she still wanted to spend time with them. She still had her dirty fucking secret, slinking away to the bathroom after eating enough to fill a horse on days when she felt like spiraling. She imagined that this might have been one of those days had she not managed to beat out all other opponents from all the other training academies in the district. You're only seventeen, she would be telling herself. There's always next year.

She realized that her heart was beating hard and she felt more connected with that fake, too-blue sky in the imagined Victors' Village than she felt grounded in this moment. There was still a chance that someone would steal this from her. Every couple of years, there was always someone who went when they weren't supposed to. It was frowned upon, but it wasn't impossible. And because of the technical illegality of training at all, there was nothing they could do about it.

But she wouldn't stand for that. This was hers, and if she had to fight her way up to that goddamn stage, she would.

"Ely?" Papa said. "You okay, kiddo?"

"I'm okay," she said. She smiled at him again. "I'm thinking about being away for that long."

He and Dad grinned at each other, that look they got that she was certain was specific to parents. They reached out and she was sure they were holding hands under the table now, an our kids feeling passing between them. Her chest felt tight. She wanted to make them proud. She wanted to win.

"Honey, you'll see us when you come back," Dad said. "And we'll be with you every step of the way, okay?"

She nodded. Dad tapped his chest, indicating that was where they would be, and she rolled her eyes a little bit. Maxon did the same.

"When we get interviewed for the final eight, please don't do that," Maxon begged of them. He was going over to the door and putting shoes on. He tapped his heart to make it abundantly clear what he didn't want their dads to do. "The whole of Panem will think Elysium and I are dorks."

"Why? Because you have dorky dads?" Papa asked, grinning at him from across the room.

It was better than having a drug addict for a mom, she thought, but she didn't put that into words. It was better than letting the whole of Panem know that they were unwanted. It was better than letting the whole of Panem know that they weren't really related to their dads, and that maybe they wouldn't want Elysium and Maxon at all if they could have children of their own together. It was better than showing the whole of Panem how badly she needed this for herself.

She knew she was wrong, on some level, but sometimes it was hard not to think.

* * *

 **Pukhraj Lesage (18) — District One**

The crowds of people in the town square flowed out well beyond what they could fit into the paved central space of the district. The buildings around them were spaced out enough that a _lot_ of people could fit, but the stage, lighting, screen, and cameras took up space. And there were Peacekeepers, the registration back in the mouth of the square, the roped-off sections of children filling up.

Puck had gone to Jacinth's house after breakfast that morning and come to the square with him. They forced their way through the crowd together, holding hands so as not to get separated—it wouldn't be very easy for him to find his way back to his boyfriend if they got lost. It wouldn't really matter, but he felt the need to spend as much time with Jacinth as possible. He didn't know why. They had hardly talked, and he knew that Jacinth was upset underneath his neutral expression. But it was better than sitting with his parents until it was time for the reaping, and riding with them on the short train ride over. It was better than seeing their glances and their worry. He hated the worrying.

"Please tell me you're not really going to do this," Jacinth said. Puck looked up at him with a frown. He thought that Jacinth was going to stop arguing with him not to volunteer, but apparently that wasn't over yet. "You weren't chosen."

"You and I both know why I wasn't chosen," he said. They had their thumbs pricked one by one and then they walked in the direction of their age group, on the boys' side of the square. People were filling in the space. It was always crowded, and he was never able to see the stage. He didn't want to come early, and people clogged the front of the section. He couldn't see over six-foot tall boys. He couldn't even see over five-foot tall boys, if there were any eighteen-year-olds still lingering at that height.

They didn't go into the group yet, though. Jacinth held him back and looked down at him with so much concern in his eyes it made Puck want to throw himself into the arena instantly to get out of the way. In the years since the two of them had become friends, and soon boyfriends, he had gotten used to catching a glimpse of Jacinth's worried face out of the corner of his eyes, but he had gotten good at hiding it. He knew how much Puck hated to see people concerned about him, especially when it came to the people who teased him. He could deal with him. He had for years and years. It had been a long time since he had properly let an insult sink in.

"Pukhraj," he said. Puck knew that he meant business when he called him by his full name, but he didn't care. "I know why they didn't pick you. I know, I get it. But the Careers—they won't take you in if you do this. What are you going to do if they don't take you in?"

"They will." He couldn't know that for sure, of course, but he didn't really think that they would be so petty that they couldn't overlook him volunteering out of turn. And besides, the kid that had been chosen for volunteering this year was sixteen—some Shine or Saffron or other. He had two more years to make up for what he would be taking away from Puck this year, his _last year_. This was his last shot to get in a big fuck-you to everyone who spat on his skills because of his height, his appearance. This was his last chance to show that he was more than what he looked like, more than who he liked. "Jacinth, don't worry. You know how hard I've been training."

Jacinth shook his head, his beautiful fucking head. He couldn't imagine what it was like for everyone to disregard him for what he was because he had never had that problem. He had always been good in training, had always been expected to train, and he had the pretty blue eyes and curly blond hair that every boy in District One was proud to have. He wasn't gorgeous to most, like that Shine or Saffron or other, but he was normal. Everyone thought that he would be fighting for the spot that Puck had been so certain he would get until the last second, but Jacinth understood, and they both thought that Puck was a sure win. Jacinth of all people knew what this meant to Puck, and he had thought that by dropping out of the race months ago, he was giving full permission for Puck to fight for what he wanted.

But apparently not.

"I know." He took both of his hands now, and a couple of the boys over in the eighteens stared. He had heard that in places like District Twelve and District Ten, people like Puck and Jacinth still hid away, at least in parts of the district. Here in District One, all that came of two guys holding hands was maybe some whispering and staring. Puck had gotten teased by some of the nastier guys at school for that too, but mainly what drew attention was someone like Jacinth giving a shit about someone like him. He hated their stares and their silent questions. "I know, I know. I know how much you want this, but why? Why does it matter if you can't have it?"

He looked up at him. "The only fucking reason I can't have it is because they don't want a short, deformed gay boy being the tribute for the district of beauty," he snapped. "I deserve this. I _earned this._ "

"You didn't get the spot," Jacinth said, and he could feel him wanting to bend down so they could keep their voices down. The moment people bent down to speak to him, Puck always became furious, and everyone close to him knew that. Well, the only people close to him were Jacinth and his parents, but they all knew it. "I know Calixto didn't deserve it over you, but he got it."

Calixto. So no _S_ at all.

"And I'm going to take it," he told Jacinth, and walked into the crowd of eighteen-year-olds. He didn't care if he was followed or not. He knew there would be time for goodbyes in the Justice Building. He made sure to stand near the exit so he could quickly move into the aisle for volunteering.

Most everyone was already gathered by then, and the escort was walking up to the stage with the mayor trailing behind. Jacinth came and stood next to him, and he looked at the stage through a space between two boys in front of him, though when they shifted occasionally he couldn't get a look.

The beginning of the reaping was boring. The mayor spoke of the same story every year, either to inspire patriotism or to stamp down rebellion, but in a place like District One, twenty-some years after the last rebellion scare, it was completely pointless to give a history lesson that everyone was reminded of yearly in school anyway. He read the name of the victors, two of which were the mentors that he would be spending so much time with before the Games. Carnelian Vincent, his mentor, was new, having just won the 98th Hunger Games, but the previous mentor had been old and ready to retire, and Carnelian had spoken about how much he wanted to mentor future tributes his whole Victory Tour, so it was nearly impossible not to give him the role. The female mentor, Brilla Nais, was one of the victors of the 79th Games—only the third Games to have the two-victor rule, if he remembered correctly. They all gave dignified waves or smiles in response to their names being called. Or the ones that Puck could see at least—only the left half of the stage wasn't blocked by the boys in front of him.

"And we can't forget our lovely escort, Victoria Ricci," the mayor added at the end. Victoria came up to the microphone, ready for her part of the reaping.

All Capitolites looked moderately foul to Puck, but Victoria had always seemed particularly foul. She had only been in District One for four years, so he remembered the days when he saw her on TV in District Five and thanked whatever deities existed that she wasn't his escort. Unfortunately, when it mattered the most, she would be.

Her eyes were a sickly yellow, and he hoped for her own sake that they were contacts and not something from illness or, worse, intentional cosmetic changes. Her face was a deeper shade of that same yellow, because apparently the beautiful shade of pus was her favorite. She had no hair and always wore big, purplish or pinkish hats to compensate. He couldn't remember ever seeing her without a dress that poofed out in the ways dresses used to in his history textbooks, from long before Panem existed.

"It's wonderful to see everyone here today!" she called out to the crowd. Puck noted that everyone was required to, but then he remembered that here, even if they weren't, most would come anyway. "Let's get on with the names, shall we?" She looked between the bowls, as if deciding if she wanted to begin with girls or boys. Then she took a few steps over to the boys' bowl, and Puck readied himself. "Lux Milner," she called out once the slip was opened before her. She looked out in front of the crowd, waiting for the reaping winner to come forth. He wished they didn't even have to bother with the names. They were unnecessary.

Lux Milner stepped out from behind them, but he couldn't tell from what section. When he walked up the steps, he looked much younger than Puck. He stood next to Victoria. "Congratulations on winning the reaping, Mr. Milner," she said with a grin, and then looked out at the crowd. "Now, does anyone—"

"I volunteer!" Puck called out, letting his voice echo through the square. He pushed his way through the few people who stood just a bit closer to the exit than him. He didn't look back, knowing that when he reached the stage, everyone's faces would be incredulous. Everyone who knew about who had been chosen, at least. He didn't hear any opposition, which he was grateful for at least. He had almost expected Calixto to make a scene, even if he couldn't do a damn thing.

He felt like he was climbing a mountain as he walked up the stairs. He had waited so long for this moment, had nearly been denied his right to it, and now it felt like an impossible thing to finally be here. He felt as though he were floating, almost, finally freed of the restraints that his appearance had placed on him all his life.

 _You'll never train. You'll drop out. You'll never be strong enough. You'll never be a contender for volunteer._

He was sure the next step would be _You'll never win_ , but fuck them.

Victoria, unaware of how he had practically just committed a cardinal sin in the eyes of the district, moved on with the reaping as expected, but her eyes did linger on his long forehead, his stubby limbs. And how she, perhaps standing at five foot tall, was a foot taller.

"All right. And you are?"

"Pukhraj Lesage," he said loudly. He was too short for the microphone, but she turned back toward it and announced his name for him.

"A round of applause for our male tribute!" Plenty of people clapped, but he looked over into his section. All of the boys he knew from his training center didn't clap. A lot of them looked pissed. He almost grinned.

She reaped a girl, and this time he could see where she came from. She was from the thirteens, but she looked almost his age. Tall, muscular, and confident as hell by her walk, he would count her as someone to look out for if she were actually the tribute, but of course, there would be someone else in that place. He wondered if he had inspired any girls to go against the training academy.

When Victoria called for volunteers, though, only one girl announced her volunteering. She came from the seventeens, and when she was close enough for him to see, he decided that her eyes looked cold.

"And you are?" the escort asked her.

"Elysium Worthing," she said into the microphone. He recognized that name from the night before. No one had taken her rightful place. He wondered if she would hate him for what he did to the boy who was supposed to her her district partner.

"Congratulations!" Victoria said. Congratulations this, congratulations that. All Capitolites hissed their _s_ 's, but Victoria's were a sibilant screech that stayed in his ears long after they stopped. "And happy Hunger Games, everyone! Let's give a round of applause for our tributes of District One, Pukhraj Lesage and Elysium Worthing!"

…

In the Justice Building, the first people in the room were his mother and father. Both of them looked frightened and his mother sat next to him on the couch.

"You said it wasn't you," she said, her voice soft but not quite gentle. She was speaking quickly. He only had so long, and he supposed that there must have been a few people to divide the time between. Otherwise, she might just have cried for half an hour before he could spend some time with Jacinth. He didn't know who else would come see him. Not everyone in the training academy picked on him, but no one else cared about him, really. "You said it was another boy."

"It should have been me, Mom," he told her. He didn't want to look at her. He wanted to look at the soft, red couches or the clouds hiding the sun outside the window. He wanted to see the birds that flew around and made their nests, oblivious to how much went into the volunteering system of District One. He wanted to pretend that he could fly like them, and ascend beyond the length of his forehead or the way his last three fingers on both hands were positioned like a trident. He didn't care what people said anymore, but last night, he had been reminded what it did feel like to care, what it felt like to hurt because of how he was born. "They didn't want it to be me."

"Jacinth said you were saying that," she said. "We never should have let you train, Pukhraj."

His father was quiet. He was always quiet. Actually, both of them were anymore, around him. Ever since he started training, they had all drifted apart.

"I've never wanted anything more than I wanted to volunteer."

After that, it was as awkward as it always at home, but he consoled himself with knowing that Jacinth would be coming in soon. He didn't want their last conversation before he went to the Games to be a fight, so he hoped that he wouldn't still be angry.

He hugged both of his parents before they left. Watching them go, he wondered what they wanted him to do. He felt like they wanted him to let himself be taken care of, like he was some kind of invalid. He hated that with everything in him. He used people who had that sort of attitude toward him as a driving force. Using spite and frustration as a driving force had worked for him for a long time. Hell, he had taught himself to use spite and frustration to stop being cynical all the time, because what was the point of it all if he was going to go through life cynical and hateful? Maybe the anger he felt would help him through the Games too.

The next person in the room wasn't Jacinth. Calixto stormed in, his face reminding Puck of images he'd seen on TV of waves crashing on the beach. It looked like it had the force to sweep someone unexpecting away, and tear slowly at the sand, pulling it into its depths. Calixto's eyes were the moon drawing in the tide, and he was ready to unleash it on Puck mercilessly.

"You goddamn fucking bastard _freak_ ," he snapped, going over to him like he was going to hit Puck, but he didn't move from his seat. He stared up at him when Calixto came to tower over him, knowing that it would only give him satisfaction if Puck flinched away. "What the fuck do you think is going to come out of this? Elysium's going to stab you in the back for doing this to me. And if she doesn't, the people from Two will—you know how much they love their fucking volunteer system."

Puck just shrugged.

"Don't just shrug! Why the hell did you volunteer? You obviously weren't the best this year," Calixto snarled, bending down to look at him like he was a kid. Puck narrowed his eyes and watched the ocean rear back in his eyes in preparation for a tsunami, but he had all the defenses up and was standing at the edge of the beach, daring the water to try to knock him over. "You're not going to win. You're weak. You're fucking _tiny._ "

Puck stood up and shoved Calixto back away from him a little bit. He stumbled and glared down at him. He was tempted to hit him, to show everyone that he wouldn't take any shit, but he didn't know how the Capitol would take that. He knew that it was just as important to please them as it was to keep things good with the Careers.

"You're sixteen," Puck said, his words calculated and short. "You're pretty. You're strong. You'll make it next year." For the fullest effect, he patted him on the arm, like a trainer at the academy would if they were being particularly patronizing. He turned away from him. "And if you don't leave the room, I'll call for a Peacekeeper."

He sat down, and by the time he looked back to where Calixto was, he was already storming away.

Next, of course, was Jacinth, who came over and sat next to him on the couch without a word. He let out a breath and took his head, and for a moment it felt like they were hanging out at his house or at the lake, leaning against a rock and peering through the couple of trees up at the blue sky. He shut his eyes and pictured the sky the last time they'd done that, not unlike the sky was today. A couple of clouds rolled through and the sun pierced his eyes the moment he opened them, so instead he leaned against Jacinth and breathed in the fresh air and freedom without people around.

Now, when he opened his eyes, he was leaned against Jacinth, but there was no fresh air. There were people all around, including those who would be dying for his picture the moment he left the building.

"I want you to come home quickly," Jacinth said, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of Puck's head.

It had taken a while of friendship for Puck to realize how much he liked Jacinth, as always seemed to be the case. But he was the first one who stuck around after Puck realized he liked him, and the two of them had never gotten enough of each other. They were comfortable sitting in silence and holding hands or talking about training or school. Things weren't hard with Jacinth; they came so naturally, it felt like spending time with him was no different than spending time alone, but a little more fulfilling. Weeks without him would be difficult, but not impossible. His life didn't depend on his boyfriend, but it was a hell of a lot better with him.

"I'll try," he promised him, looking up at him. "I will come home."

"Think you can set a record for shortest Games?" he asked.

Puck felt a grin forming, uncontrollable. "Oh, not only that, I'll set a record for shortest victor," he said.

Jacinth couldn't help but smile either. They laughed, and spent the next half an hour chatting like Puck wasn't going away to the Games. Right before he had to leave, Jacinth pulled a locket out of his pocket.

"I almost forgot," he said, his voice quiet, as though the contents of the locket were a secret from the world. He held it close to him when he opened it, seeing a little picture of the two of them inside. He wondered how long Jacinth had been planning to give this to him. It had shocked both of them last night when he hadn't gotten the volunteering spot, but it was still nice to know even more that Jacinth had had this much faith in him. "For your token, if you want."

Puck leaned up to kiss him briefly, his lips ghosting across Jacinth's. It wasn't really a kiss so much as a promise, and a thanks.

Jacinth left the room and Puck clutched the locket in his hand as though the world outside the Justice Building would tear it away from him, and tear Jacinth away with it. He had lived for so long clutching everything good to his chest, but when he took his first step out of the Justice Building, he let his grip loosen and told himself that winning these Games would free him like the birds in the sky and the moments at the lake. And maybe the locket was just as much of a promise as the kiss was.

* * *

 **Atalanta Leander — District Two (18)**

It was well-known within District Two that any sensible, well-trained person at the age of sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen would vie for the a chance to go to the Games with everything they had in them. Atalanta was one such person, a woman who had had training drills pounded into her since the age of seven. She was prepared for the life that a victor led, and the next stretch of her life to get her there would be one that she had been looking forward to since she had first understood her lot in life: to train for the Games. There was an entire district attempting to stop her from fulfilling that fate, and as soon as this reaping began dragging closer and closer, she despised them more and more.

She had tried to volunteer last year, but was beaten out in the last round to determine the volunteer. She had wanted to strangle that girl, and took a small amount of joy in watching her perish at the hands of the backstabbing girl from District One—until that same girl killed the boy from Two similarly, and thereby ruined the chances of bringing pride back to the people of District Two.

She was ready for the moment that the escort called for volunteers, because this year, it was her. As soon as she woke up, she felt determination bubble up within her like water boiling and the steam spreading out to fill her entire being.

Reaping mornings were always the same—the whole of the district was trembling in anticipation of what was to come, of what would happen there today. The Capitol, so close by, could be felt as well, waiting at their reaping day parties or watch gatherings or whatever it was that they did on reaping day. They were ready to shower feasts upon the person who would come forth to give them the entertainment of the year, as was always the way of those from Two. Even when the others won, Atalanta felt with no small amount of district pride that citizens of Two always gave the best show.

She would be one of those people this year.

The reaping started at nine, but she and her family lived within a five-minute train ride from the square. They rarely ever woke up before eight on reaping mornings, but this one was different. She found herself awake sometime before seven-thirty, looking up at the ceiling and occasionally over at the clock. She didn't want to be out of bed yet, not until it was time. The longer she waited for it to come outside the bed, the longer of a time it would feel, and already she was miserable with the foretaste of her victory.

Last week, when she had thrown the final punch before her opponent conceded, she had felt like she was on top of the world. Her nose bloody and her eye black, her knuckles soon to be aching, she had felt the adrenaline pump through her and had looked around at the people who had come to the academy's main center to attempt to win the volunteering place. She had looked at the spot where she stood last year after her defeat, listening to them announce the name of the girl that wasn't her. It had felt for a moment like she had already been through the arena and back.

"Our volunteers this year will be Atalanta Leander and Acario Kasen!" She heard that announcement from last week echoing around in her head. She reached up and touched her lip where it had been busted, felt the lingering ghosts of her bruises. They had hurt, but it wasn't the worst she'd been hurt in training. They had been the marks of her winning as well, and their pain felt like success.

Eventually when she looked over at the clock, it showed that it was close to eight, so she pulled herself out of bed and got dressed. She knew she didn't need to dress too fancy, but she wanted to look presentable. She was glad her hair was cut so short, though. She saw the way some volunteers took the time to wear their hair in updos and slather themselves in makeup—especially in District One—and to her it seemed like they were volunteering in the Games for the luxury, and not for the personal and district pride. It seemed over-the-top.

She walked out of her room and into the rest of the house. Rhea's door was already open and she was dressed, watching the TV. Atalanta heard a hissing Capitolite talking about the excitement and the meaning of the Hunger Games, so she assumed it was pre-reaping programs. She couldn't imagine what else would be on the morning of the reaping.

Sometimes they could catch the beginning of the District One reapings—the good part, at least—before they had to go, but today she didn't want to be late. She wasn't going to risk it.

"Morning," Rhea said when she saw Atalanta at the door. She grinned a little. "Ready to volunteer?"

Rhea and their other sister, Phoebe, knew how good it would be for them to have a victor for a sister, the level of intimidation that would bring. Rhea would be sixteen next year, and it would be the first year where her volunteering would be a serious possibility. It could have been this year, because of how ready their father had made them, but this year was Atalanta's. Phoebe would be another contender when her day came, but she was only twelve.

"Have they started breakfast?" she asked, wondering if there was a point in going downstairs yet. She was hungry, but she knew there would be plenty to eat on the trains. Still, she didn't want her stomach to grumble when she was up onstage.

Rhea shrugged. "I dunno. Go check," she said. "If they have, will you come get me?"

Atalanta rolled her eyes at her sister and went downstairs. The living room was deserted, so she walked across the hardwood to the kitchen, wishing that she had worn socks. There was something about walking across wooden floors barefoot that she hated, so she was glad when her father had carpeting put down in her room to take away that problem for her upstairs. She was glad that they had had the money to do it, too, but when your father came from a well-to-do family and worked at the training center, you didn't hurt for money.

She found the two of them in the kitchen, her mother tending to bacon while her father flipped pancakes.

She knew that she was lucky to have them for a lot of reasons. For one thing, her mother was not the only woman that her father had laid his eyes on, but he was the one she married. There were plenty of children throughout the district who were born from his antics with other women, but it was her, Rhea, and Phoebe who benefited from his presence, from his money and his position in training. And he wasn't a bad father, either, so that was nice.

They looked over at her and her father smiled with pride. "Good morning, my volunteer," he greeted.

She smiled a little bit. "Morning. Is Phoebe up?" It wasn't important, but she wanted to fill the silence.

"She came down a bit ago to ask where I put her shirt," her mother told her, so she nodded.

"I'll see if she and Rhea are ready for breakfast," she told them. It looked almost done, at least.

She walked upstairs and knocked on Phoebe's door first. There was the sound of movement inside, and then she opened the door, all dressed and ready to go. She wasn't dressed-up in any way, knowing that she wouldn't go onstage except in the unlikely event that she was reaped, but she was ready.

"Breakfast is nearly done," Atalanta told her. "You might want to head down."

Phoebe nodded and went back into her room to grab something. Atalanta didn't stick around to see what it was. She went over to Rhea's open door, but before she could open her mouth, Rhea said, "I heard. I'll be down in a minute."

Atalanta nodded and walked back down, reaching up to feel the necklace she was wearing. A bronze pendant with a spear engraved on it, she felt like it held some piece of her with it, like it was a part of her that she couldn't shed on her way to the arena. She didn't know of anything else she would rather have for her token, and she was sure that she would obsessively feel that it was still there the whole way to the reaping. She had made so many mental notes the night before not to forget it that it was hard to think of not going to the Games with it after all that.

She sat at the table, Phoebe soon joining her, and looked around her kitchen. This would be the last time she would see it as her own kitchen, because the next time she saw District Two, she would be picking out her house in the Victors' Village. It would feel kind of lonely living in a big house like those in the Victors' Village all by herself, after dealing with her sisters and her parents for eighteen years, but she was so eager to have her victory that the aftermath felt like foreign territory in her thoughts.

Her mother brought both of them something to drink, only because it was a special day. Her parents didn't allow laziness in their home, but they were very tolerant and generous on days like birthdays and reapings—particularly with one of their daughters volunteering.

It filled her with the same adrenaline she felt when she won the spot every time she thought about calling out her place as a tribute today, in less than an hour. It felt like breathing after years of slowly forgetting how to, now that she could finally relax knowing she made it.

But she couldn't relax for long. In the Capitol, it would be important to maintain her image to the Capitolites and to the other tributes. Depending on who her district partner was, there was a possibility she would have to stop relaxing the moment she stepped on the train heading to the heart of the Capitol. But she would be ready for that, and all the while she would feel her busted lip, her aching knuckles, her bloody nose, the bruises that would form, and each blow she threw or she took would be a reminder of her success to come.

* * *

 **Acario Kasen — District Two (17)**

Acario's life leading up to the reaping day in which they would be able to volunteer felt like a series of a handful of bullet points, seemingly unrelated but mixed together and spat out until they fell in line and led Acario here. Some of them felt a little bit much, a little bit sad, a little bit silly, but all of them were vital in bringing them to the train that was taking them and their family to the square, where the stage would be, where the victors would be.

They rarely mattered. They were rarely more than a poor kid good at training. But today they would be the talk of the Capitol, the talk of the nation. District Two was formidable as hell, and like all three Career districts, their tributes were poured over by those who wished to place bets on who lived and who died in the weeks to come.

It felt strange to know that their name would be on the tongue of thousands upon thousands of people. The only thing that soured it was what they would call them—Acario Kasen, boy from District Two, _he looks strong, he looks good, he, he, he._ It had always felt a bit like stepping on something pointy, like a little splinter, when someone called them he. It was hard to explain, and even harder to live with in the area of District Two their aunt and uncle called home, but it was enough in that respect that their family respected them.

When they reached the town square, their aunt looked at them. Acario knew that Aunt Bridget and Uncle Devin wanted desperately for them to bring home money to the family, to bring them out of the poverty that they had always lived in, the worsened state that they were in when taking on three more children: Acario and their identical siblings. The three of them had always known that they weren't hated, but that their aunt and uncle wished that they only had to take care of their own three children.

"Be safe," Aunt Bridget said, patting their shoulder. She didn't hate them, Acario knew that. But she resented the money it cost to feed them, to clothe them. "We'll see you in the Justice Building."

They nodded. "See you then."

Out of the train, Acario, Amatus, and Ariel led the way over to registration, their cousins trailing behind. Cordelia saw one of her friends and went off, waving a little bit at the five of them and disappearing into the crowd of people gathering in what would pass for a line. They would see her later in the eighteens section, maybe, or maybe not until they reached the Justice Building. It didn't matter. Acario would see her again after the Games.

"Are you going to tell the girl?" Henry asked.

They looked down at their cousin. He was always the angriest, and maybe that was because he was fifteen and it was the age for anger and resentment to be festering toward everyone, but Acario, Amatus, and Ariel suspected that he listened to his uncle complaining about expenses in the house too often. He forgot exactly how hard the triplets tried to get a spot in the Games to bring home a fortune. He forgot how rich they would be once Acario came home.

"The girl volunteer? I don't know," they answered, not in the mood to talk about this.

When it had been announced last week that they and Atalanta Leander were the ones who would be volunteering, all they could hear was her surname. Leander. Their father was the well-known womanizer, Themis Leander. So that definitely gave them an idea of who he would want to come home with them.

Part of them felt similar resentment like what Henry harbored for the triplets toward her and her sisters. Why did she get their dad? Why did she get all the money that came with a father who worked for the training center? Why did she get a mother too on top of it, while theirs had died at birth, and all three of them had been left to live in the attic of their aunt and uncle's house and worry about dinner each night? Acario had to work quadruply as hard as she ever would have had to in order to make it to the Games.

It would sting a little bit to see her, but they hadn't decided yet if it was worth it to tell her that they were half-siblings. That there were three more half-siblings waiting back home in Two. She must have known that there were half-siblings of hers scattered all across District Two, but it didn't matter. She was the one that mattered. She was the one that he stuck with. They hoped she was grateful.

"Are you going to come home with her too?" Zelda asked. She was much nicer than her brother, and much less vain than her older sister. If they all lived in a district where volunteers weren't commonplace, they would almost be worried about her getting reaped. Thirteen and quiet, she wasn't really tribute material. But thankfully, there would always be people wanting to go to the Games far more than people like Zelda—like him.

Acario nodded. "Well, yeah, that's the plan. For Two to win all the way," they told her, smiling a little bit.

The line slipped away one-by-one, and soon Amatus was up for registration. Acario watched his brother's finger pricked. He stepped out of line but waited for Acario and Ariel. They went next and joined their brother.

"See you in the Justice Building," they said to Henry and Zelda.

They felt like they could feel eyes on them here and there, those who recognized them from the academy and knew that they were the volunteer. They stood up taller, not grinning externally but feeling the need to show that they were ready, they were focused on their goal, they were a good choice. In a section full of people as old as seventeen-year-olds or eighteen-year-olds, the people turned their eyes on volunteers with envy and then flitted their eyes to the ground, downcast and invisible, holding anger and bitterness tight to their chest. People didn't often wish ill will on the tributes of Two, even if they were angry that they weren't the volunteer. At least, not as far as Acario could tell. Everyone wanted to volunteer, but everyone also wanted District Two to receive the glory. If that was by someone else's hand, then so be it.

"How are you feeling?" Amatus asked. It wasn't often that anyone heard Amatus making sure that anyone was okay, that they were feeling well, but there were certain things that the siblings reserved for each other. There were certain sides of each other that only they and their friends saw. "Are you ready?"

"You'd better be," Ariel said with a grin, clapping them on the back. "You're going to kick ass, Acario."

They grinned at their siblings and nodded. "I'm ready. I've been ready," they said.

They looked up soon as the mayor took the stage and the ceremony began. Acario's mind wasn't set very firmly on the reaping, though, instead wandering to what would happen after the reaping, the kind of luxury they would find on the train car and in the Training Center. They had looked forward to the Training Center all their life: the superior training stations, with the best courses and weapons one could find, and when all was said and done with training, there would be a gourmet meal waiting for them.

Time during reapings was sort of like watching a the faucet leak on a sink, drip-dripping by and knowing that it would be over soon. It was inevitable and unfixable to have to watch the sink drip away, the water splashing down to the bottom and slowly sliding into the pipes, and watching it was only good for feeling like one's mind had disappeared. When the last drop finally inched down and made its descent, it felt a little bit like freedom. With the last drop, the escort stepped up to the microphone, the bowls of names on either side of him.

Archie Lauve was one of the most well-known escorts and one of the least annoying. He had maintained his place as escort for District Two for years, and Acario was glad that they hadn't had to deal with anyone else. They knew that District One had just gotten a recently-upgraded escort, the one who came from Five, with the horrible voice and ugly eyes. They wouldn't have wanted to deal with that one even just at the reaping, let alone all the way to the Capitol and until they went off to the Games.

"Welcome, all!" he called out to the crowd, as if he would receive more than stares from the anxious crowd in return.

There was always an undercurrent of emotion in the reapings. Even with the volunteers chosen and the system strictly followed almost all of the time, there were still people wondering if everyone would truly follow what was supposed to be done. But then, in Two, if someone went against the volunteering system, it was acceptable for the chosen volunteer to force their way onto the stage first, which put Acario's mind at rest.

"I can see everyone's as excited as ever for our tributes this year," he said, and this was true, despite the stony faces surrounding Acario. As per usual, Archie began speaking about how grateful he was to be there, how lovely it was to be in a district as nice and as accommodating as District Two. It was the same as it always was, with new words and new hand gestures, and a new manic look in his eyes. It seemed to Acario that his excitement looked more panicked every year, and they wondered if they were soon to be passed up as District Two escort. "Well, let's begin."

Without further wait, Archie walked over to the girls' bowl and stuck his hand in, swirling about as if there was anything hanging on the person who was reaped. It was entirely inconvenient to have to wait for the reaped girl to walk onstage while they were waiting for their own turn up there. The girl came from the eighteens' section and she looked bitter, her arms crossed as Archie yelled out for a volunteer to take her place.

And then there was the voice, the voice of the girl from the training academy. The voice of their half-sister.

"I volunteer," Atalanta Leander announced confidently, her voice barely even raised. They doubted that anyone behind the crowd of children could hear her, but it didn't matter. She was striding up to the stage anyway, her face set and determined. They saw a little bit of themselves in her face—closer to Ariel's, actually, but similar enough that to someone who knew, their shared father would be evident.

"Your name, my dear?" Archie asked her, smiling as she walked past the eighteen-year-old who would never get a chance at the Games.

"Atalanta Leander," she said clearly into the microphone. Acario looked over at Ariel and Amatus, wondering what they were thinking. Maybe their feelings toward her and her family were comparable to whatever it was that cause Henry to narrow his eyes whenever looking at the triplets.

"Congratulations, Miss Leander!" He looked out at the crowd and held up his hands for an applause, which came gladly, everyone getting a good look at the girl who would hopefully be their next champion. "And now for the boys!" His hand dove into the sea of names again, tossing out the line for someone's name to nibble at like a desperate fish.

"I volunteer." Acario's voice rang out in the square the moment that the question pushed past Archie's lips, and their strides were long and sure as they came to the stage. They glanced over at the crowd as they entered the first step into their victory. They looked over at Archie, waiting for him to ask for their name.

"And your name, young man?"

"Acario Kasen," they told the people, the Capitol, the country, and felt at last a whirlwind of hope that had been waiting patiently to flood him the moment his volunteering was official.

* * *

 **Soren Wright — District Six (16)**

When Soren was little his father would sit down on his bed and tell him stories about beasts who lived in forests of blue-leaved trees and pink-tinted clouds. These beasts terrorized the forests and pushed the blue-leaved trees down, smashing their bark and gnawing on their leaves, destroying any evidence of the beauty that they once were. He would wave his hands in grand gestures as he painted pictures of these beasts, with sharp fangs that were always reddened and matted fur, exposed skin mottled with sores and scars and marks, ugly beasts with twisted roars and strangled whimpers. Then he would describe the knights: clad in heavy metal armor that gleamed in the light of the stars and the sun, that clanked and clattered, and giant swords enchanted with spells that could slay the beasts and save the forests. Soren would stare with wide eyes, terrified of the image that Soren's father could make abundantly clear with his words, and then when the knights came in on creatures of their own, beautiful creatures that came in green and pink with smooth fur, he would sit up and grin as the tale ended with the trees regrowing and the forest thriving with life and hope and no more beasts to hurt it anymore.

When Soren was older, his father would still tell these stories when anyone would listen, but instead of grinning at the heroics of the fictional creatures, Soren would try to find whatever drug he had taken and get rid of it. The stories were beautiful, imaginative, the best memories of his childhood—but they were tainted slowly as he aged and saw that maybe the beasts were just the drugs that his dad had taken all of his life to find the inspiration for these tales.

A lot of the stories took place in the land of the beasts and the knights, but there were no more stories about the beasts beyond when the knights reclaimed the forest from them. After that, they usually consisted of the land that this world took place in, and Soren would shut his eyes and remember them sometimes. A lot of the time when he did, the haven that he pictured was the Capitol.

The day before the reaping, he was picturing these lands almost obsessively, and he couldn't get the grin off of his face. The car that he was working on was the least of his worries; what he was thinking about was driving the escort, Ottilie Stream, the job that Lillian had gotten him _miraculously,_ to the reaping the next day. It was perhaps the first reaping where the day before he didn't even feel a twinge of worry. His life was going so well, it seemed like it was impossible that anything could go wrong.

"Kid, get your head out of your ass," Lillian said, coming up behind him and thwacking his head. "What the hell are you doing? You've been staring at those fucking valves for the past fifteen minutes."

Soren looked back at her like he only just realized that he was at work not already living in the lap of luxury in the Capitol. Ever since he had talked to the escort to get himself the job of driving her to the reaping, he had felt elated and his head was most definitely in the clouds. Ottilie had mentioned something vague about not having a personal driver in the Capitol, and when he picked her up at the train station that day to take her to where she would be staying overnight until the reaping, she had commented on how Soren was a much better driver than any that she had ever had back home. And during the ride from the quiet, empty area of Six where the trains unloaded to the nicest area where the visiting Capitolites stayed, she had begun talking and not stopped, and then complimented him on his listening skills.

"You're interesting." She had looked at him with contemplation in her eyes. "Don't be late to drive me to the reaping."

She had taken an interest in him. There was actually a shot that he would be getting out of the hellhole that was Six.

As much as he liked working at the garage, there was nothing he wanted more than to live amongst the happy people who never went without eating and never worried about reapings. He wanted so badly to make himself a life there that it ached not knowing if Ottilie was actually going to ask him to be his driver.

Now, here he was, pretending like his life might not change for the better today. Pretending like he was just working before the reaping. Pretending like this was just another average day in his relatively dull life.

"Daydreaming," he answered her, looking down at the valves that he had been, in fact, staring at mindlessly for way too longer.

"About the Capitol, I bet," Boe said. He was the youngest of the workers at the garage. At fourteen, he had a smart mouth and a way with cars like all of them did. "You don't really think you can get away from Six, do you?"

The two of them were good at teasing each other, but it never hurt like it did to hear about the doubt in Boe's voice. Everyone else had been supportive of him, though he could hear the doubt in their voices. Even Lillian was careful around the topic, but Boe spoke jokingly about it like it really wasn't possible that he would be able to get away from the life that would never lead anywhere here. But it was hard to stay angry at him when he looked over and saw the black eye that none of them had talked about, and none of them would. There were certain things that weren't talked about in the garage.

"I'm gonna," he told Boe, and hoped that he would drop it without anything further.

"Hey, kid, you know what I told you about talking to her, right?" Aeron said, likely to prevent Boe from saying anything else on the subject. He was Lillian's backup, basically, as skilled as she and her brother were, and the one who had so much knowledge about the proper way to talk to a Capitolite. And occasionally, he would throw in an awkward bit about how to fuck a Capitolite, too. "They're all arrogant and they love to talk. So just shut up and smile. You always got that dopey face on, so I think you're good."

Soren rolled his eyes at Aeron, but he nodded. He had taken everything that everyone had told him into consideration, knowing that this would be so important for him. He had never been to school and he wasn't in a position to make a good life for himself in District Six, so his only shot was to look at the Capitol and let the hope swell through him until it floated him directly there.

He wished it were that easy. He was fully aware of the obstacles in his way, but each and every one of them he addressed and told himself, _I can do this._

"And you have the suit I gave you?" Amelia asked him.

Amelia was the youngest in the Alcock family at nineteen, a family of wealthy people—wealthy for Six, at least. She had started working at the garage a while ago, dressed in nice clothes with her hair tied back tight against her head instead of just sloppily put back like Lillian's always was, and the look about her screamed the fanciest area of Six. But when she introduced herself, all of them had immediately been against her. There was no way that she could be a good addition to the shop, not a snobby rich girl who was there to—what? They hadn't been able to figure it out. But the longer she stayed, the more they realized: they had gotten her all wrong. Amelia was perhaps the sweetest person at the shop, with a genuine interest in cars and a desire to get dirty and work hard.

"Yep, I've been extra careful with it," he told her, knowing that it was from her family's shop. She assumed that he would be giving it back when the day was done, but if he got a job in the Capitol, maybe he could ask her to keep it until he had the money to send back to her. He doubted she would take his money even if he was paying her back, but it would feel strange not to.

"You're gonna be great, kid." Soren couldn't help but smile a little bit as he looked over at Jet, the oldest of them at the garage, when he said this. "Just like I was."

Sometimes Jet would go on about all of these things he'd done in the past without ever revealing what his past was like, often just giving reminders to everyone that he used to be _the best,_ and even now he was a great driver. He wasn't always all there, but he was when it came to cars. Soren wouldn't have been nearly as good at working with cars and wouldn't know how to drive at all were it not for Jet helping him out when they hired him to the garage. He had always liked Jet a lot, and liked hearing his half-stories. They all speculated about what things in his past might actually have been like, but when Soren moved to the Capitol, he would miss hearing all the snippets like clues or puzzle pieces leading to the bigger picture.

"Thanks, Jet," he said.

Lillian let out a huff of breath. "Why don't we just give up for the day?" she said. She looked around and saw that none of them were really working all that much. Jet was lost in thought now that his part in the conversation was over, and Soren could see the fear in Boe's eyes. Maybe that was where his nasty comment had truly come from: he was afraid he would be reaped. Soren could understand that, but with all of the names in there, he didn't know if his could possibly be chosen, even with the extra names in there for tesserae. "None of y'all are working on shit."

There was a pause like they were all waiting for the retort they knew was coming from Lillian's brother, Alberto, probably something along the lines of _Well, neither are you, sis,_ but he was out working with the trains that morning. He didn't always get to show up at the garage because of being on-call there. Sometimes that was a good thing, because the arguing he and Lillian did would get tiring, but he was another piece of their little hodgepodge family. And he did care about them, even if he did a lot of drinking and snapping at Lillian.

"Good idea." Aeron set down the part that he had in his hands and wiped them on his pants, looking at her. "I wanna swing in on my sister."

Because of the fact that the garage was unofficially a no-family zone, Soren really didn't know why Aeron was always going to see his sister, except that he felt like he was close with his nieces and nephews. But every year before reapings, he went to see them, and he talked about them sometimes. Happy family talk was generally allowed, as evidenced by the occasional reminiscing Alberto and Lillian engaged in. So when the seventh of Aeron's nieces and nephews was born not long after Soren started working there, he remembered that that was all he talked about. And sometimes he would talk about having to bring in his oldest niece and oldest nephew some time since they seemed interested in cars. But Soren still couldn't get any more of a grasp on Aeron's family than he could on Jet's past. They were all puzzles there, really, pieces of backstories to be unlocked but unwilling to slip the key over to anyone.

None of them really knew about Soren's dad except Lillian, but he felt like Lillian held all their secrets. He felt like she held the whole of Six's secrets actually. If she walked up to him and told him that she knew whether or not Soren's dad was _actually_ his father, he wouldn't be surprised.

He hadn't told her about that, though, about his occasional wondering. Was Otto just a man his mother had slept with? They would never know, and it didn't really matter. This was the man that he had grown up with.

"My parents will be mad if I go to the reaping by myself," Boe told them. He ran a hand through his hair, looking really young—even though he was only two years younger than Soren. "I'm surprised they let me come into work this morning at all."

Soren couldn't put those puzzle pieces together. The bruises, scrapes, black eyes, busted lips—they didn't add up with the picture of the parents that Boe painted, parents who cared about whether he came to say goodbye before the reapings, people who wanted him home on time constantly. But maybe Soren just didn't understand his kind of parents. He only understood the kind that got high all the time.

"I gotta get ready to pick up Ottilie," Soren said, waving at all of them and heading out of the garage. It was a cloudy day in Six, but he was sure that the skies were clear in the Capitol.

…

Ottilie Stream was talkative the whole way to the reaping. She spoke about her clothes, asked him if her dress was too loud, if her hair wasn't loud enough, if her makeup still looked good, and then she proceeded to talk about the horrible traffic in the Capitol—which made Soren extremely happy. Every mention of the Capitol he took to mean she wanted to hire him, wanted to take him back home with her. He waited impatiently for her to just ask the whole drive from where she was staying to the square.

He parked a little ways outside the square and looked over at her. "Thank you for letting me drive you," he told her politely, letting his dopey face come into play here, as Aeron said.

She waved the thanks away. "Thank you for driving me so well, young man," she said. "What was your name again?"

"Soren Wright."

"Soren Wright," she repeated with a nod, her hair barely bobbing with her. It looked like it was probably real hair, but it was so hairsprayed that it must have felt like an object of its own atop her head. "I want to talk to you after the reaping, Mr. Wright, while the tributes are talking to their families."

His heart started pounding hard in his chest and he nodded, perhaps a bit too excitedly. "Yes, I— yes, that would be great, thank you," he told her. "I'll— I'll meet you afterward."

She got out of the car and he did the same, looking at her with more awe and gratitude than was probably necessary. Without another word, she walked toward the square, heading for the Justice Building where she would wait until it was time for her to step out. Soren walked, dumbfounded and anticipatory, toward the registration, feeling a bit like he was not even remotely touching the ground.

…

Soren, for perhaps the first year, wasn't focused on the glass bowls full of names this year. Instead, his mind was flitting back and forth between what he would do when he first moved to the Capitol—he was feeling dye his hair, just to do it, just because he would finally be in the Capitol—and meeting Ottilie. He couldn't keep the grin off of his face, and he was sure that he looked completely out of place at something as upsetting about the reaping, his smile from ear-to-ear.

When Ottilie swam her hand in the bucket of girls' names, he was thinking about her saying that she wanted to take him with her to the Capitol, that she would like to have him as a driver. He was thinking about leaving this life behind, about finally being free of the strain of District Six, of worrying about his next meal or if his dad was going to use their money to buy drugs instead of food again, and then laugh it off in his stories like Soren wasn't hungry and having to figure out how to get to his next paycheck. He wanted to just drive, just drive and listen to Ottilie's mindless chattering. He wanted that freedom, that security.

"May Sparrow!" Ottilie called out into the crowd, her eyes immediately beginning to search through for the girl who would step out. Soren looked over as well, his grin dropping as the announcement of someone's life being thrown away.

There was a stirring on the girls' side, but no one stepped out yet. After a moment, there was a shifting—in the twelves. The crowd's anxiety was a tangible thing, and it expanded tenfold when a little girl stepped out. Soren frowned. He didn't know if it was because of the distance, but it seemed like—no, it wasn't. She was blind.

A blind twelve-year-old. This was fucking cruel.

When the Peacekeepers seemed to realize her predicament, they started to come over to her, but she recoiled the moment one touched her. The Peacekeeper stepped back as she walked toward the stage, a stick out in front of her like a cane. She brushed it from side-to-side on the ground.

When she reached the steps, she carefully walked up them, looking scared even from a distance. Soren wanted to be sick. He couldn't believe he had even had his mind preoccupied on his own fortune for even a second when things like this were happening. This May girl was so young, and how the hell was she supposed to help herself when she couldn't even see?

She walked over to Ottilie and stopped when her stick tapped the stand that the bowl of names for the girls was on. She stood there, a little out of view from the crowd.

"Oh," Ottilie said, though her voice didn't drop from his happy lightheartedness. He imagined not even Capitolites could stomach watching little blind girls gutted in an arena. "Congratulations, sweetie. Aren't you adorable?" She recovered from the brief moment of compassion with ease. "Now, any volunteers?"

The silence after that in the square made Soren want to strangle someone, but he didn't know if he would even volunteer if she were a boy or he were a girl. He couldn't bear this.

"Now, onto the boys, then," Ottilie said, taking a step over and putting her hand in the bowl. Her hand fished around, but all that Soren could see was the distorted image of the little girl on the stage, eyes unseeing and blank, directed forward out at all of the people. He was sure all the rest of the eyes of District Six were on that little girl. "Soren Wright!" Ottilie's voice stumbled for a moment in surprise.

He was still thinking about the girl when he took a moment to think about the name that had just been called—the name that had echoed out to everyone, inescapable, damning, deadly. He looked up at the escort as if she could save him from this, and then around at everyone else, frozen in place. Before he had been shifting from one foot to another occasionally; now it felt like he was glued in place, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. He felt his knees weakening like he was going to fall.

"Soren Wright?" Ottilie prompted, and finally he took a step. Everyone around him looked at him and knew now that he was that name, he was the owner of that little piece of paper, that little death sentence. They parted around him, making a line to escape the safety of the sixteen section.

 _No,_ he wanted to whisper. _No,_ he wanted to scream. _No, I won't. Not now._ He wanted to rage and refuse and hold his ground, but instead he took a step, and then he found himself taking another on autopilot. Before he really knew what was going on, he was halfway to the stairs.

His blood felt icy. His heart felt like it was going faster than light. His mind was somewhere stuck between empty and extreme grief.

There was something hot on his face. Hot and wet. He reached up and felt tears gently dancing across his cheeks.

He was going to die. He was going to die.

"Shake hands." Ottilie's voice was distant. He stepped over and took May's outstretched hand. "Congratulations to the tributes from District Six, May Sparrow and Soren Wright!"

He felt someone prodding on his back to push him back into the Justice Building. He stumbled.

He was going to die.

* * *

 **May Sparrow — District Six (12)**

"May Sparrow!"

May's name seemed to inch to her like a worm making its slow, wriggly crawl across the pavement out in front of the factory, near where the pavement ended. That was where the worms always collected when it rained. That was what Xavier always told her at least. He always said that they could go out and look at the worms wriggle on rainy days during lunch. He always told her that when it came closer to time for her to start working at the same factory as her family.

May wished that she could go out to where the worms wriggled to feel closer to him, and felt something inside her ache when she heard the pitter-patter of rain on the rooftop during the day. She knew that her father was at that place. She wondered if Xavier had ever told him about the place where the pavement ended and the land of the worms began, and if he ever stopped there and saw them crawling around and thought of the things that he'd lost.

She thought about what she'd lost all the time, but being awake at all, it was hard not to remember. Her whole existence was a reminder. It was hard not to, when her voice and her sight had been ripped from her with that stupid accident happened.

It had all been so quick. She remembered just learning what she would be doing. She remembered her oldest brother, Mace, having to go check on something before he could help her more. She remembered her father being home sick and kissing her on the forehead, telling her to try to have a good day. She remembered her mom's friendly smile whenever they saw each other throughout the day.

She remembered heat and pain, screaming, remembering being pulled away, and then she remembered light against her eyes in a hospital. But beyond that vague, distant light pressing against her like it was a thick coating of paint, she couldn't see anything. And when she tried to get anything out of her mouth, it hurt.

It couldn't have just taken her eyes. It had to take her voice too. It had to rip apart her family and take away everything that kept her independent.

Her recovery was a decision for her. There wasn't a damn day that she didn't miss her mom and her brothers, but every single day of her life, she decided that she wasn't going to miss her independence, not if she could help it.

When she heard her name called, she relived that day at the factory on repeat, like some cruel and twisted version of one's life flashing before their eyes. She wanted to cry; she felt a whimper that wanted to escape.

She moved. The stick held tightly in her hands went out and predictably found that there were plenty of people around her. She continued swinging it out on the ground until their feet moved, and the next people's feet moved, and soon she found herself in an empty area. _Turn right,_ she told herself, and she turned right slowly.

She wanted her dad. She wanted Ms. Wilson. She even wanted Cherry. She wanted to cry.

There was a touch on her shoulder and she moved away from it as quickly as possible. After a moment, she breathed out. A Peacekeeper, probably. She swung the stick out in front of her and moved forward slowly toward the stage, willing the heavy tears not to fall. Their home was on the brim of her eyes, and damn it if she was going to let them leave that when she had to leave everything as she knew it. She didn't want to cry. She didn't want to lose it.

She felt the stick on the stairs. She took a step up, and then another, each calculated step bringing her closer to the bowl of names that had betrayed her.

Her dreams were very vivid, sometimes memories and nightmares of what happened. Sometimes they were just thoughts about her mother, waking her up gently in the morning on her birthday and telling her that there was a very special breakfast. Sometimes they were about her brothers, Xavier five years older and Mace eight. Sometimes they were about screaming with a cushion of bright light suffocating her. They never felt quite real, though, and when she woke up she knew immediately that that was normal. This felt like one of the dreams.

Her stick hit something and she stopped there, not wanting to run into the escort. She didn't want to be touched by anyone except Dad, Ms. Wilson or Cherry.

She didn't start hearing anything else after her name was called except the way that it sounded when she first woke up after the accident. She knew that it wasn't true, but it was almost like the world had a different feel, a different texture, a different sound to it. She remembered how stressed her father's voice had been.

When it sunk in that Ottilie Stream said "Shake hands," she turned in the direction where the voice was coming from and tentatively put out her hand. After a moment of what she assumed was hesitation, the boy gripped her hand and shook. There was no weight to this handshake; he was obviously in as much shock as she was.

She felt breathless. Afloat. Normally those words felt, to her, like the sound of music, Cherry's voice, the way she felt after getting a full night's rest with no dreams. Now they felt like she needed anchors and they were closeby, but for the life of her she couldn't find them, no matter how hard she struggled and searched and felt around.

The Justice Building was cool inside. It felt a bit like she had been transported from one place to the next, a gentle touch on her back for a moment so she knew where she was going before it pulled away. She didn't know who was leading her, but she didn't want to be around them. She didn't want anyone to be looking at her, though she didn't know if anyone was.

It smelled like vanilla. Her mother loved the smell of vanilla, though Xavier hated it for some reason and detested it when she came home with something to smell the house up with the scent, after having saved for it.

She heard a door being opened for her and she entered cautiously, feeling around until her stick reached something. She felt around until she found what seemed to be a really soft couch, and sank down into it like maybe she could sink down into the moments before the reaping where her biggest worries were of when her father would learn more sign language like she had so she could talk to him, or when she would get to spend time with Cherry next, or when her next lesson with Ms. Wilson was.

She twisted her mother's wedding band on her finger. She supposed she would need a token. This could be it.

"May," Cherry breathed. May didn't turn her head to the doorway where her friend was, knowing that she would come over soon. She could feel it when she sat down next to her. "Oh God." She felt an arm around her and finally the tears started to run over. She was gasping but no other noise escaped. "Oh God."

She wanted to thank Cherry for everything she'd ever done for her, but instead she just cried into her shirt while she was held. Being held by someone as kind and sweet and understanding as Cherry would have made her heart feel that afloat feeling before, but she just felt terrified and a little disconnected.

"I'm so sorry, May," Cherry whispered, obviously at a loss for words. Most of their friendship was Cherry talking and May sometimes writing things down to communicate back. This goodbye felt hollow without her chatter. "I'm so sorry. Your dad and Ms. Wilson are outside, I— I'll give them their turn in a second, I just…"

May shook her head. This was okay. She was okay with sitting here with here.

She wanted more than anything else to talk to Cherry like Cherry talked to her. She wanted to tell her about the crawly worms and she wanted to say that as much as she clinged to this memory of Xavier, she hated the way worms moved and she wished that her brother had given her any other way to remember him.

She wanted to talk to her about the way it made her feel when she heard a guitar strumming, or when Ms. Wilson stopped having to adjust her fingers on the strings because she had gotten used to where everything was. She wanted to talk about the way sometimes after breakfast, on chill mornings when rain pattered and her heart hurt too much, she and her dad would dance in the kitchen. He would hum a little song that her mother would always hum to her, and they would sway, neither of them knowing how to dance, really, but desperate for a little father-daughter connection after everything.

She wanted to talk about how she wanted to remember what the grass looked like the morning after a rain, sparkly and damp and so green, a green that spelled out life before her like she had never known until it was gone. She wanted to talk about how speaking with Cherry was one of the only things that kept her sane, and walking back from music class with her gave her some semblance of normalcy, though she usually had to hold onto her friend's arm or walk with her stick. She wanted to talk about the way that a certain note on the guitar reminded her of Cherry's personality somehow, and she didn't know why, but she had a lot of time to think about it and it just made sense.

She wanted to talk about how she felt like she could still come home and have it all, and that thought scared her more than anything else. Hope had always pulled her through, but now it felt like hope was going to do little more than terrify her. If she had hope, then she couldn't come to peace with what was going to happen.

But why should she? Why should she give up? Maybe the Soren Wright boy was good. Maybe they would be allies and they would get out of this. Maybe she could feel her mother's eyes shining down on her like the stars used to twinkle at her at night when she, Mace, and Xavier would go out to the backyard and lie underneath them.

"I should go," Cherry whispered, pulling away and squeezing her shoulder one last time. May felt her get up and heard her footsteps move away. She wiped at her eyes and tried to reel in her breath, which she realized had returned to a gasping thing.

Ms. Wilson sat down next to her. She could tell who it was because Ms. Wilson didn't hug her immediately. May sometimes talked to her about how touching made her scared unless she knew it was one of the three of them. Well, she signed it to her.

"May… I don't have words," she said gently. "This is… this is unfair."

 _I'll miss you,_ she signed.

She had talked to her a bit about how good for her it was to learn sign language, and how grateful she was for Ms. Wilson for being a good teacher. And more than anything, she always thanked her for bringing music into her life, since it had become so important to her. As much as she wanted to say all these things to Cherry, she couldn't find it in her to say them to Ms. Wilson.

"Your dad will be in here in a minute," Ms. Wilson told her. "He wanted me in here while he said goodbye so I could help to translate you."

They had done that sometimes, so it would be easier to talk. And she knew that Ms. Wilson had been teaching her dad sign language in their free time, so he was getting better at understanding her basic phrases. But basic phrases wouldn't cut it this time.

She wondered if he didn't want May to hear him crying, and that was why he stayed out of the room for a moment.

She heard his footsteps when he entered, felt him sitting down, felt his arms around her immediately as he began to rock her and whisper, "My baby girl, my baby girl. My little girl. My little May," over and over until it felt as natural as the whistle of the wind in the autumn. She didn't want to lose that noise. She wanted to surround herself in her father's voice, wanted him to take her away from the Games and protect her. For once since she recovered after the accident, she wanted to let her father take care of her again.

After a moment he pulled away. _I love you,_ she signed. This was a phrase he knew.

"I love you too, honey," he said. It sounded like it was hard to speak, like he might cry again, and she felt herself crumpling and leaning against her dad.

 _Thank you, Ms. Wilson,_ she said, feeling a flood of words suddenly come forward. _For this and for teaching me how to play the guitar. Thank you for helping me to be okay. Thank you for trying to help him speak sign language._ Her fingers couldn't move fast enough, and she was shaky enough that it felt like she was fumbling everything up, but it seemed like Ms. Wilson understood when she said quietly, "Oh, May."

"What's she saying?" her dad asked.

"She's just thanking me," Ms. Wilson told him. "It's been such a pleasure teaching you, May. And I want to continue doing it when you get home, okay?"

 _I want to come home and find the worms._ Ms. Wilson translated and she could feel the uncertainty in her voice, like she thought maybe May had said something wrong. _The day everyone died, my brother said he wanted to show me where the worms danced after it rained. I want to show Dad the worms._

She wanted to give them as much hope as was naively filling her heart. She didn't care if it was stupid. It was a promise and she needed a promise.

"You come home and we can see the worms," her dad said when Ms. Wilson explained what she was saying. He started swaying a little bit, an arm around her, but not restricting her hands so she could still sign. "Please come home, May. Please come home."

 _I want to come home._

"Please. Who will I dance with?"

He sounded so broken. His voice was like the flash of lightning, waiting for the crack of thunder like it would come with the end of the world, shaking and massive and all-encompassing. The crack of thunder was everything else, but it wouldn't stop. It was one of those thunders that went on and on and on. She just wanted to feel the rain.

Soon, all thoughts to her sign language were abandoned and he was just rocking her again, humming that song and occasionally whispering, "Please come home, my little girl. Please be safe, my mayflower."

She couldn't let him dance alone.

* * *

 **Don't forget to review if you liked it!**

 **I have plenty of spots left open, so if you want to send in your first, or more, or a bloodbath character, that would be great!**

 **Also in general, I'm not going to shy away from more adult themes (I'm a very vulgar person so characters who I feel would cuss are going to cuss an amount appropriate to them, I also tend to write graphically violent scenes if it suits the moment from time to time but not in every chapter, and while I'm personally not comfortable or good at writing sex scenes I'll mention them if it's relevant), but if something particularly upsetting (like self-harm, particularly gruesome violence, suicide, or, of course, bulimia) comes up, I'll make sure to add a trigger warning, and if I ever forget, feel free to remind me.**

 **And I've sort of mapped out for myself which districts still hold some homophobia and transphobia and to what extent, so that might play a role here or there.**

 **I want to say that I'll have a consistent schedule for writing but knowing me if I made myself a schedule I would either feel too pressured and not write at all or I'd write so much that I'd be weeks ahead of myself and then I'd have to stop writing until I caught up. So I'll try to post at least once a week but it may end up being more depending on how productive I get**

 **And finally (I swear all my notes won't be this long, bear with me lol) I might very well get some things wrong with how all the pre-Games shit works. It's been at least a year or so since I've seen the movie in its entirety, and even longer since I last read the first book. If I get something wrong, let me know!**


	4. The Vicious Dark

_"Light always underestimates the viciousness of darkness."_

 _\- P.C. Cast_

* * *

 **So I realize it's been a really long wait and sjdlfkj school started up again and my sister got married and also depression hit so I was not here for writing a lot of the time. But... hopefully I don't keep repeating this lmao. I'm gonna try to make myself stick to a POV a day for every day that I physically can but sometimes executive dysfunction/life just doesn't let you do shit lol**

 **I don't think I should be as slow now that school has started tho bc school always makes me write more. And anyway I don't think I'm gonna disappear for that long again bc I hated doing that and I feel really bad sdjfljd but some things are out of my control I guess**

 **Also I know that this isn't the full three districts as was planned, but I'll do four districts next time. I think part of my problem is I know I'm so late, and I'm so bothered with getting all three districts out that it's stressing me out more than it should. So starting a new chapter will hopefully allow me to write more without worrying about that!**

 **Anyway on a less upsetting note, here's the chapter! I hope you all enjoy and let me know if you do!**

* * *

 **Broehain Greene (15) — District Three**

Every reaping morning, Broehain's mother and father would relax on him. His mother would usually wake him up once breakfast was almost done and they would eat as a family, and for a moment it would always seem like the two of them were okay. Like they were calming down, and he could take a deep breath and not fear returning home more than he feared his name being drawn from the reaping bowl.

When he woke up in the tub instead, it was certainly a surprise. The water was half full and freezing, and his skin was pruny. His neck ached like hell from sleeping in such a horrible position, and it seemed like at some point he woke up and vomited, but he couldn't remember anything.

His lip ached and there was a cut on his knee he couldn't remember getting. He must have cleaned himself off after something particularly bad the night before. Maybe he and Silas got drunk.

He remembered going out to see Silas, and he knew that if his parents found out he was still seeing him, they would do whatever it took to impress upon him that that was unacceptable, but he couldn't drag forth any memories of them catching him sneaking back in.

When he tried to move, he found that more of them was hurting than his knee and his lip. His whole body felt a little weak and bruised, and there was another cut on his cheek and forehead when he reached up to feel. He let out a gasp when he put weight on his injured knee. "Fuck," he breathed, feeling disgusting. He was still a little covered in vomit, and he had been sleeping in water mixed with it. But he didn't have time to empty the tub and run another bath. It wasn't long before the reaping. Why hadn't his parents come to wake him up?

He turned the faucet on and grabbed a rag hanging off of a hook by the sink. He wiped himself down the best he could and then dunked his head under the water. That was probably the best he could do. He went and got dressed in his room, knowing that his parents would probably be angry with him for waking up so late. They were probably oversleeping too, but they would still blame him.

Once he felt like he was presentably clean, he checked the time. There was still time for a make-do breakfast before they left, so he went toward their room. After knocking a couple times with no answer, he opened the door cautiously, frowning and looking around the door as he opened it.

There was no one.

He was starting to get really confused. He didn't know where they could have gone. He didn't know what they would be doing that they were nowhere to be found. It was a little frightening, really, as they had never done this before on reaping morning. They all had to be there, so why would they just leave him here to potentially not wake up?

"Mom? Dad?" he called, checking in the kitchen next. He turned the corner into the little room where they cooked and ate, with the wooden floors and the light cabinets.

Blood.

It was splattered along the cabinets and pooled around the center of the kitchen. The kitchen that his mother had always called "quaint" was stained with red, a sharp contrast to the homely feeling that his parents tried to give their house.

Broehain stumbled away from it and walked out of the house without a thought in his head. He didn't notice where he was going until he was a block away from his house, his hands shaking as he gripped the hem of his shirt tightly. He didn't know what to do. He turned around and looked back, his breaths coming quicker and quicker.

What happened? How did all of that blood get there? Where were his parents?

Why couldn't he remember the night before? Why did he wake up in the tub?

There was a patch of trees between his house and Silas's—he realized he was heading in that direction—so he stopped over there for long enough to throw up. When that was over, he was left feeling dirty and raw, and his stomach ached and his head pounded. He felt like someone had taken sandpaper over more than his whole body, but his mind and his soul, too. He was so confused. He was so scared.

He walked to Silas's house, wishing that he had something to give him support. The moment that Silas opened the door to Broehain's knocks, he collapsed against him, shaking.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what's wrong?" Silas asked, though his arms snaked around Broehain like he would never let go. Broehain was scared of the moment when he inevitably would. "Eha, what's going on? You're shaking. A lot."

Normally when things were wrong and Silas called him "Eha," the silly nicknamed that originated from his name being unnicknameable, it made him feel better. It made him feel at home when he knew that he was close to Silas and he remembered how much his boyfriend cared about him. But now, he didn't know if anything could help how he was feeling. He didn't know if anything could give him the answers, and he was scared of whatever they were.

"My parents are gone and there— Silas, there was blood. There was so much blood. It was all over the kitchen, I…" He trailed off, remembering the pool, the light-colored cabinets and the way that the crimson looked, speckled like a paint-splattered design over where they kept their pots and rags and food. He felt out of his head, like slowly everything that was him was being pulled gently out of his body, until he was aching distantly but he couldn't feel himself shaking, could only barely feel Silas's arms as they came around him.

"It's okay, it's okay," Silas breathed, his lips against Broehain's hair, but none of that really mattered. He felt like the world was tinted red, and he was watching it from afar. "It's okay. Let's go sit down and you can tell me what happened."

They walked in the house. It didn't feel right that their house felt normal. It was the same as it had ever been, with Silas's sister walking from the hallway to the kitchen, barely sending them a glance, and his parents were in the other room.

"Silas, who was here?" his dad called from the other room.

"Broehain. We're gonna go to my room for a minute."

There was a pause, as there was always hesitation and uncertainty when Broehain came over. Silas's parents didn't like seeing him with the bruises on his face or the busted lips he wore around when his parents were angry with him—and he was sure that they would like it even less if they knew that a lot of the time, they were angry about him spending any time around Silas.

"We're leaving soon," his dad finally called.

Silas led him through the hallway down to the room at the end, and Broehain didn't really care where he was being taken so long as there was somewhere to sit when they got there. He had been in this bedroom plenty of times before, though, after years of being school friends. He had spent the night in this room, had snuck into this room, had found solace in this room. It was the safest place in the world, as far as he knew.

He sat down on Silas's bed and looked up at the white ceiling. He gripped the sheets underneath him, and when he looked down at his hands, his knuckles were white. Silas sat down next to him, so he looked over at him. His eyes were so dark, so beautifully brown. There was a little bit of gold in there.

"Eha, you don't… you look funny." There was so much worry in Silas's voice, and Broehain hated it but he couldn't remember how not to feel separated and scared. He didn't remember how to seem like he was okay, and it didn't matter anyway. What Silas needed was for Broehain to be okay, not to pretend like he was. "Tell me what happened."

It took him a moment to think of what to say, not because anything Silas said required a difficult answer but because he was scared of reorienting himself. He was scared of what it would feel like to get that feeling in his stomach again, and how much it would hurt to think of what could happen if the world wasn't muted. "I did," he finally settled on.

"You just said they were missing and there was blood." Silas took his hand and held it close to his chest. He could feel his heartbeat against his fingers. He wanted to live in the rhythm of that heartbeat, instead of the world, where he found blood on kitchen floors and cabinets and he listened to Silas's father's voice and remembered his own father's voice the night before after he snuck back in the house.

"That's all I saw."

He put his head in his hands and shut his eyes. Silas's hand, now vacated, went to his back gently.

"Eha, if someone came in your house, why didn't they come for you?"

"I don't know!" He looked up at Silas, angry now. He didn't fucking know why any of this happened, or even what happened, so how was he supposed to know why he was okay? He didn't even know for sure if his parents had been _killed_ , but it sure seemed like they had. How the hell was he supposed to be able to interpret the killer's _motives?_

Silas looked a lot more nervous than he did a moment ago. "We should go," he said gently. "We can figure this out after the reaping, okay?"

He nodded a little bit, feeling some sense come to him, but he could still feel how badly his hands were shaking. Silas stood up and held out his hand, which Broehain took thankfully. He squeezed slightly, but he felt weak. Silas wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"It'll be okay." Silas looked at him steadily, through the fear in his eyes. "I promise you that it'll be okay, Eha."

He didn't know if he believed him, but he walked out of his room with him.

His parents were standing at the door and it looked like his sister had been sent to go retrieve him, as she was at mouth of the hallway and turned around upon seeing them.

"Are you going to the reaping with us, Broehain?" Silas's mother asked him.

He nodded a little bit, looking between the door and his shoes. "Yes."

"Okay," she said pleasantly, but it was impossible not to hear the worry in her voice.

The five of them left the house and began to walk toward the square. It wasn't far from Silas's house, so they didn't need to take the train in, but they would be cutting it close. Broehain didn't care if they were leaving late, if they were going to have to hurry along to make it on time. He didn't care about anything. The reaping seemed like such a small problem now.

Silas's mother and father were chattering the whole way there, filling the fearful void with their words. Talyn, Silas's sister, stuck close to the two of them, but she didn't say anything. She was twelve. This was the first year their parents had to worry about both of them.

He was sure that, to them, the reaping seemed like the biggest problem in the world.

He just wanted to know what was going on. Nothing was making sense. His mind wasn't making sense. He saw the ground that they were walking on and he heard the words around him and he understood the fear of the people he was with, but none of it felt connected to him. He felt a little bit like he was walking through fog. The closest he felt to anything was to Silas's arm around him and the vague nausea brewing inside him.

 _It'll be okay. It'll be okay._

He knew that it wasn't true, but the words echoed around in his head.

 _It'll be okay. It'll be okay._

* * *

 **Pandora Alvarez (15) — District Three**

The line to check in for the reaping had nothing to block the wind from whipping her hair in her face. She held her tied-back hair away from her face, irritated that she hadn't thought to braid it and even more irritated that her little brother had kept them and their mother from getting to the square sooner. The line was long now, and it would be several more minutes of hair annoyances before she could finally get into the roped-off groups of people, where the stage set up seemed to be blocking a lot of the wind.

She didn't want to admit it, but it was much easier to focus on how stupid her hair was being than to think about what could happen at the reaping that day. It didn't help to tell herself that her worrying was irrational, because it wasn't. Probability didn't matter as much when names were scrambled in their randomly. Yeah, it was more likely that an eighteen-year-old with a poor family of twelve would be reaped, but her name was still _in there._ It was still possible.

So she worried still, and glared at her hair as a strand slipped free from her grip and flew in her face.

And as much as she disliked her brother, as much as he got on her nerves, she hated that Quinn's name was in there, too.

Finally the line stopped seeming so impossibly long—at least in front of her—and there were only a handful of people left to have their fingers pricked and their names checked before being told to carry along to their sections.

She saw Optima Rufus, a friend-ish from school, walking out of line. Pandora hadn't noticed that she was up there.

"Hey, Optima," she called. The girl turned around and saw Pandora standing there, and she walked over toward the line. "Good luck."

Optima smiled at her. The two of them always battled for the best at school, and right then Pandora found that Optima was another one of her pet peeves for the time being—at least while she held first place in class rankings, and Pandora struggled to steal that spot back for herself—but she wouldn't wish for Optima to be a tribute, ever. "You too, Pandora."

Once she was checked in, she hesitated and looked back at Quinn. He had fussed all morning with whatever the hell he fussed over—probably something to do with the shady fucks he was starting to hang around—probably just another way to cope as much as worrying about her hair was for Pandora, but at least hers involved her thinking in her head along the way instead of actively making them late.

Still, she ruffled his hair. "See you afterward."

He hated it when she ruffled his hair, but it looked like he couldn't even muster a glare.

In the section full of fifteen-year-olds, she sat and listened to the people around the square filling their anxious minds with chitchat. People talked about school or what they were doing with their families later. She heard the snippets of the conversations, not necessarily eavesdropping but unable to avoid it, and wondered if any one of them would be going.

She watched and listened, and kept a hold of her hair—which still was flying around—until the reaping started up, the mayor mounting the stage and the previous victors being announced and introduced. It was the same every year, but Pandora had heard of indoctrination. It worked in the Career districts, but in places where it was harder to deny that life was hell, no one could see parading victors around as heroes as anything spectacular.

And hell, no one really ever paid attention. Pandora surely didn't.

It was hard to tune out the escort's voice, though. The mayor's voice was smooth and always a little monotonous as he gave the same yearly speeches, and read out the Treaty of Treason. Plus, the words were so ingrained into her, they felt more like silence than the sounds of birds chirping in the distance.

But the escort's voice was different. Her accent was different. Her words were sharp and they hissed. It wasn't pleasant, nor even boring enough to ignore.

Pandora never listened to the words, but she couldn't help but hear Ebba's voice. She was grating and annoying. She wondered if there was anyone in all twelve districts who didn't find their escort annoying, wondered if any of them at all listened to the speeches told at reapings. She hoped not. That would be a really boring, goody-two-shoes person, and not the kind of person she wanted to share oxygen with.

"I am truly grateful to be able to present this year's tributes to you," Ebba gushed, looking out at the crowd as if any of them wanted her to be there, like they were so grateful for her presence in return. She was such a kiss-ass. Pandora supposed all non-Career escorts must have been. They all wanted to be promoted. "Well, I think I've been rambling."

 _Mmm, you think, lady?_ She could feel the disdain ripple through the crowd like a tangible wave of dislike.

"Let's do the girls first," she said into the microphone with a smile that looked plastered on. She dipped her hand into the glass bowl and drew out a name with very little flair or glamor. At least she was straight-to-the-point in that. "Pandora Alvarez!"

Pandora? Pandora Alvarez?

She had been reaped?

She stared up at Ebba for a long second, before around at the people in the section. Pandora Alvarez. Some of them who knew her from school looked around and spotted her, their eyes filled with pity. Some were still looking around in confusion. Some just had their heads bowed.

Pandora Alvarez.

"Pandora?"

Pandora Alvarez.

Her whole body felt like static. She dropped her hand down to her side and her hand began whipping her in the face. She felt every annoying moment of it, and felt how a path outside of the section began to form as people realized who everyone was staring at.

No. She didn't want to go. She shrunk back, away from the people who were parting in front of her. She didn't want to be taken to the Capitol. She didn't want to be taken to an arena.

A Peacekeeper walked through the path that people had made for her. She looked up at them with wide eyes, but snapped back into herself when they reached out to grab her. She pulled her arm away and glared. "Get away from me," she hissed, not caring if she wasn't supposed to talk that way to a Peacekeeper. What did it matter? She was going to the Hunger Games.

She brushed past the Peacekeeper through the path and walked toward the stage, her breaths short but her steps even. She was terrified and she couldn't hide it entirely, but she was going to hide it the best she could.

"Congratulations," Ebba said once she was on the stage. "Are there any volunteers for the spot?"

She looked out over the crowd, a small part of her hoping that someone would have some reason to go into the Games so that she didn't have to—but of course no one spoke up. She stood on the stage like she was separated from everyone in Three by an island, shaking as death become an imminent prospect, and no one called out to build her a bridge back to the mainland. No one offered to take her place in this isolation.

She wouldn't have either, but it didn't stop her from feeling anger well up inside.

"Alright, onto the boys," Ebba announced. She stepped in her tall heels over to the boys' bowl, her hand swimming in the names once again. Pandora watched her, waiting for her to grip one of the little slips, waiting for her partner in these stupid fucking Games. She finally pulled one out and held the slip up so she could read it. "Bro—" She paused, struggling a little with the name. "Bro-hane Greene?"

There was silence, as there always was right after a name was announced, like the preemptive mourning of the fallen, and then a boy stepped out of the same age section as her. Much quicker to respond than she was. He was kind of short, and his brown hair was a mess. He looked like a mess all over, actually. There were bags under his eyes and he looked like he'd been sweating a lot.

He didn't look like much of a threat. He seemed kind of strong, but he also seemed really out of it.

When he came on the stage, she watched him closer, sizing up this person. So much for partnering with him. Unless he was far more _there_ than she was guessing, she didn't think he would be much of anything.

At least she had a head decent enough on her shoulders to know that she would need an ally—and it would be best to gain their trust early.

She asked for volunteers. No one came up, so it seemed like Broehain had an island all of his own too.

"Did I pronounce your name correctly, Mr. Greene?" Ebba asked.

He shook his head. "Broehain," he mumbled, but Pandora could barely hear him.

Ebba heard him well enough, because she spoke clearly into the microphone: "Let's give a round of applause to the tributes of this year's Hunger Games, Pandora Alvarez and Broehain Greene of District Three!"

They were made to shake hands. His grip was weak. His hand was moist.

They were shuffled into the Justice Building and Pandora kept her head down on the way there. The crowd shifting sadly behind them as they walked away and the knowledge that the cameras were following them every step of the way made her feel strange. Like each gaze was sticky, and she couldn't wash the feeling off of her skin.

She sat down in the room that she was led to, looking around at all of the luxurious furniture. She wondered if this was what the Capitol looked like everywhere, or if it was even better. The couch was far comfier than anything in her house. She sunk into it like it could take away all of her problems.

Unsurprisingly, her mother and her brother come in first. Her mother's eyes were sad and afraid, which was more than they usually were.

It wasn't that her mother didn't love them, because Pandora and Quinn knew that she really did. It was just that she wasn't always mother material—she far preferred bars and men over diapers and bedtime stories.

"Pandora," she whispered, coming over and sitting next to her. That word was enough. Pandora knew everything she wanted to say in the sound of her voice, but she didn't want them to go. As much as her home life could be described as "dysfunctional," the thought of them walking out of the Justice Building soon, without her, made her heart ache and twist. "I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry."

"I know." She didn't mean to sound short, but she was scared and listening to them apologizing was too much. She knew how sorry they were. The whole district was sorry for her and they didn't even know her. So she knew how sorry her own family was, and she didn't need to hear it, or see them get all teary. Then there was a chance she would get teary too, and she didn't want to do that. "I want to come home, Mom."

It fell out of her mouth before she could stop it, but it felt almost good to say it.

"I know, Pandora. And you can. You can. You listen to everyone and you train hard." She was pursing her lips. That meant she was going to cry.

Pandora looked over at her brother so she wouldn't have to see that. He was in shock. His eyes were wide. "I'm sorry too."

She let out a breath. "I know."

The rest of their time went about the same. A couple of other people came in to see her—a girl from school, Reina, came after her mother and brother. Pandora didn't know what to say to her more than she didn't know what to say to anyone else. She had always thought that Reina was really pretty, the prettiest girl she knew, but she never let herself think about that for long. Reina was also really smart, and Pandora knew indulging herself in those feelings wouldn't help her be at the top of the class—especially not when she was falling behind Optima.

Reina did a lot of the talking, though. She didn't stay for long, because Pandora's time was running out, but she told her how cool of a person she was. It made Pandora feel fractionally better.

The last person to come in was Optima. She talked about how much she would miss her.

"I don't know what I'd do without some decent competition at school," she teased with a small, shaky smile.

Pandora smiled back. "You had better make sure you stay first until I come back, then. I don't want anyone else trying to steal our spot."

Optima nodded and looked away from Pandora. "Okay, I think I have to go. They said you didn't have much time left," she told her.

Pandora nodded. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course." She stood up and went over to the door, saying, "Good luck, Pandora," before leaving Pandora alone on her island again.

* * *

Dylan Waterhole (16) — District Four

Dylan woke to the sound of yelling. It wasn't uncommon and he wasn't surprised, but even as it was all the way across the house, he flinched at the ferocity in his dad's voice. It sounded like he was yelling at his mother.

He sat up and got dressed, ready to go to the reaping. He knew that if they started off the day fighting, his dad's mood was going to be horrible for the rest of the day.

Out in the hallway, Rain was leaning against the bathroom door. She looked at him and rolled her eyes, so he knew she must have been waiting for Wade to get out of the bathroom. He came and leaned against the wall with her, saying nothing as the sound of their parents' yelling carried through the walls.

After a couple minutes, he leaned over and knocked on the door. "Come on, Wade, both of us are waiting now," he said.

Wade didn't usually care about what the two of them wanted, of course. Actually, the two of them saying they needed in would probably get him to take even longer in there, but Dylan needed to pee and Rain needed to do whatever else she needed to do.

"I'm in here, Dylan," Wade called out, his voice sharp. Dylan rolled his eyes. He didn't let the way Wade talked to him do more than fly straight through him. He was always looking to be as nasty as he could, and as Dylan had been living with him since he was four, he had learned that the little brat wasn't worth listening to.

"I've got to piss, Wade," he snapped back.

"Piss out the window."

He looked at Rain, who let out a breath. The two of them were always on the same side, but that didn't matter; two against one was nothing when the one had the favor of their father, and none of them wanted on the bad side of their father.

She pulled away from the bathroom door. "I left my brush in there, so I can barely get ready at all until he fucks off," she muttered, glaring over at the bathroom door.

Something slammed against the wall and both of them jumped, Dylan's shoulders tensing as he wondered if his father had thrown something.

He knew the way to make him act better. He knew the way to make him happy at last, and he was finally going to fulfill that today. He was ready, he knew, and maybe he would be readier next year—but he didn't know how much longer he could take his father's attitudes.

He had been pressed to train his entire life. If he wasn't ready now, then the last eight years since he joined the swimming team was a waste. He had swam, wrestled, and trained, all to his father's approval, for the majority of his life, and had been sworn away from dancing—"Dancing is a little girl's support, and you aren't a little girl, are you, Dylan?"—and if he didn't volunteer now, when he felt it was the right time, then there was no point at all.

He was the most worried about leaving Rain behind. The two of them always had their backs when their mother couldn't have their backs, but he knew that she could hold her own for the weeks that he was away. And then he would be home.

She might have made a good tribute too, but their father wanted male victors. That didn't make sense to him. She was fourteen and seemed, even untrained, to hold potential—the same potential that had brought Dylan himself to this point. But it was brushed away.

It didn't matter now. He would bring their family the honor of a victory, and Wade would probably try to as well when he grew older.

Wade eventually came out and Rain said he could go first. He did his business and looked at himself in the mirror. He had to look like a competitor that the Capitol would want to support. He wanted to be able to win them over from One and Two—because although they liked tributes from Four, they always favored those from in the first two districts.

It didn't matter what they thought, though. He was going to win with or without the support of the Capitol, but their support would certainly help.

Rain went into the bathroom behind him and he went out to the kitchen, grabbing a yogurt to eat before they headed out. The yelling in the bedroom stopped finally. It had been fizzling out for the last couple of minutes, and Dylan was relieved enough that his shoulders let loose some of their tension—but only some. They would be coming out soon, and he braced himself for the yelling to be directed at someone else.

Rain joined him in the kitchen, not eating anything herself. "Are you excited?" she asked him.

She had asked similar things plenty of times before, so he knew that she was worried about him. She believed in him, and had told him that she was proud of him, but he knew that she wanted her brother to come back home. And he didn't want to leave behind his little sister, his best friend.

"I'm most excited for all the good food in the Capitol," he said, smiling at her. "Not that I don't love having fish five nights in a row, but I think a change of pace will be refreshing."

She grinned and rolled her eyes. "You're not excited for all the boys in the Capitol?" She kept her voice low, in case their father came out, but Dylan didn't keep that a secret from her.

"Well, that too." He smiled more and looked back as their parents' bedroom door opened. First out was his mother, pulling her shirt down like she always did when she felt uncomfortable or upset. "Hey, Mom."

Their mom smiled at both of them, the strained smile that always came after the yelling sessions, and walked quickly away from the kitchen. She left the house entirely without looking back at them.

"Let's go," his father said gruffly when he came out of the room. He looked between the two of them. "Where's Wade?"

"I think he went to his room," Dylan told him.

Father nodded. "Get him and then let's go."

Dylan walked down the hallway to Wade's door, which was cracked open. "Come on, we're leaving," he said gruffly to his brother. He wanted to get out of this house. One way or another, this was the last time he was ever going to be in this house, except maybe to come and get his things.

He didn't want his parents to come live with him in the Victors' Village, but he wondered if his dad would come anyway, would move in with or without Dylan's permission. And he wondered what kind of hell Rain would live alone in that household, surrounded by Dad's shouting and the favoritism shoved at Wade. He didn't want to think about how Dad would harp on her for not being the right kind of daughter just as he harped on Dylan for not being a masculine enough son. He didn't want to think about all the times Wade would come home sporting a detention from being a little shithead at school and get praised for "holding his ground" and "establishing his place" to the other kids.

He was so tired of it. He wanted to make Dad happy so he would stop with all of it, but the closer he got to volunteering, the more he wondered if it was ever going to stop.

Outside on the way to the train, Dylan looked up at the cloudy sky and the birds peppering the blue with their dark silhouettes. His mother saw him staring and smiled at him, the quiet smile that she always shared with him and Rain. He loved his mother and wanted to make her proud more than he wanted anything in the world, more than he even wanted to bring pride to his father.

They reached the stop for the train, the bundle of cars on the track carrying bundles of people to the square, where they would sit and listen to a droning speech before hearing him call out to the whole of District Four that he was taking the place as tribute. He was claiming that as his own, and the one thing that he could truly be proud of. It was the only thing he had been allowed to feel pride in, as wrestling had always been a hobby more than a passion.

But training—he could revel in training, in finding ways to bring a smile to Dad's face or to feel the strength that came with all of it.

In the train, he sat between Rain and their mom, Dad and Wade across the aisle since the train was starting to get full. He looked down at the floor of the car, feeling the train move across the world around them, the passengers stuck in the movement. He felt acutely aware of how the world spun without the passengers' constant awareness, and how time dragged everyone along without thought. It was strange to think of this, the way life kept on moving no matter who tried to hold up a hand and push it back.

He guessed he was just worried about the Games. He was worried about the way time wouldn't stop for him to think in the arena. The way the train wouldn't halt if he decided he wasn't ready on the way to the Capitol. The way the world would keep on spinning if he returned to his family surrounded in light-colored wood rather than the adoration of the Capitolites.

The train ride to the square wasn't long for them, but it would have taken far too long if they had walked. Dylan stood up when they came to a stop and inched out of the car with the rest of the mob of people looking for reaping day to be over. District Four may have been a Career district, but no one treated the reaping quite as much like a holiday there as they did in One and Two—but it wasn't a horrible harbinger of death as it was in the other districts, either. It was just a burden, when they all knew it would be much easier to volunteer through the trainers and carry on like that.

But there was tradition, and the Capitol liked to drill that into them.

When he was finally out of the stuffy train and into the open air, he looked around for his friend, Lynn. He wondered how his morning had gone, but just as Dylan's always were, Lynn's were usually something that he didn't want to talk about. But the two of them had bonded over that shared feeling.

He looked over at the stage, drifting toward the line to register since he couldn't see Lynn anywhere. He would be up on that stage soon. He felt his stomach twist. He was nervous, but he was ready.

He knew that he couldn't stop the world and its spinning, but he could reach his hand out and push back as hard as he could. And that was something that he was going to learn how to do today. It was time to finally take that into his own hands.

* * *

 **Parker Dorian (17) — District Four**

Parker looked at the stage intently as the speeches droned on, the voices of the mayor and the escort carrying through the district like birds carried by their wings, bouncing in and out as they moved toward and away from the microphone. Claude Orchid was dressed as his namesake this year, which was interesting, although she felt like maybe his representation was not anatomically correct. The petals flared out around him in the dress the he'd donned, and his head was all a bright yellow as though it was supposed to be the anther or, at least, some part of the reproductive system.

She wondered if Claude knew that one way or another, his head was representing a flower dick.

She didn't know if Capitolites thought that far ahead, though; she was certain that people who were watching this reaping in the Capitol live were fawning over how amazing his outfit was. It was colorful and lively, she had to admit, but lively in the way that all Capitolites were. A splattering of colors that a toddler could put on a piece of paper was lively, but it was often too much, a scribble that truly meant nothing except chaos and an interest but lack of understanding in how colors could go together. They were hard to look at, but they were certainly _something_ to look at, just as Capitolitian outfits tended to be.

She listened closer toward the end of Claude's speech about the integrity and strength of District Four, and of how proud he was to be their escort, knowing full well that he would kill to be assigned District One or Two, just as they all would be. She wondered how long it had taken him and his literal dickhead to claw his way up to District Four, but ultimately she didn't care. It wouldn't be forever that she spent with him, and it wouldn't be forever that she wasted thinking about him.

Instead she thought about how she would present herself on that stage, a thought that had crossed through her mind a million times. She had gone over it with Stephanie, her guardian, a countless number of times, but neither of them had come to the conclusion of whether she should stride to the stage with confidence or if she should walk with unparalleled and unbreakable power. It wasn't that much difference, but she wasn't sure if her stoicism could win over the hearts of the Capitolites as much as a head held high and a little smirk could. But she was sure that her blank face and her deadly eyes could intimidate.

She decided to leave it up to the moment when she called out for her position to choose. She would pick whatever felt right in the moment, and she was sure that she could work with either angle that she solidified when the time came.

She felt like she should have known something like this sooner; Stephanie had been preparing her to be her little victor for her whole life, since she was old enough to start studying the things that would be helpful in the arena.

"Now, for what we've all been waiting for!" Claude called out in that same voice that he always announced that he was about to pluck out the lucky names of the individuals chosen, despite the fact that their places would be taken from them anyway. "I'll start with the girls."

He reached into the pool, fingers swimming, until the plucked out a name. He called it out, Heather Something Or Other, and she left the section of eighteen-year-olds. She was dressed in what seemed like the best rags she could likely afford. Parker didn't recognize her, but she could tell from a distance that this girl was from the poorest areas of the district; the fact that she was reaped might have been horrifying for her if this wasn't a Career district, where a volunteer was guaranteed. She couldn't have been prepared for the arena in the slightest.

"Congratulations, Heather," Claude said, with a bright smile plastered across his dick-themed head. His lips were even yellow, and the bright white teeth and gaping black mouth behind them were alarming. He looked out at the crowd. "Now, if there is anyone who would like to take Heather's place as a tribute for these Hunger Games, I am now ready to hear their proclamation."

Claude always felt the need to read out the fancy speech as Parker imagined it was written. She knew his phrase by heart now, so she knew exactly when to breathe in, ready to call out at the right moment, "I volunteer!"

There were a few others around her, and since of course no one could verify that it was her voice that rang out first, she struggled out of the section of seventeen-year-olds, pushing past an eighteen-year-old vying for the position. She wasn't very strong, but her determination and drive to do this, to do what she was trained to do, carried her through to the stage.

She was the first one on the steps and she didn't look back to see if there was anyone else trying to leap up to the stage after her, but as soon as her foot was on the ground past the last step, she held her head high with a smirk.

This felt right. After having fought for her spot in the Games, it felt the best to show pride for her position.

The Heather girl left the stage, nodding her head to Parker as she went past. Parker nodded her head in return, acknowledging her, acknowledging her thanks for being saved from the Games.

"And what is your name?" Claude asked.

She stepped up to the microphone, watching as things settled down, the identity of the tribute now sealed with her standing securely next to the escort. "Parker Dorian," she announced. She stepped aside so he could speak and draw the boy's name, but kept an eye out on the crowd, scanning them. She had gotten into the habit of constantly sizing up a situation. People were excited; the people struggling to take the place of tribute every year was always interesting.

She looked over at Claude, watching him for a moment as he announced that it was time for the boys'. He took two short strides and pulled out a name, with the appropriate flair for drawing a name for the reaping. Then he returned to the microphone and called the name out. She looked back into the ocean of people standing out there, and saw a thirteen-year-old walk into the middle aisle. He fidgeted with his hands in front of him, looking down at the ground as he walked.

As it went with her, Claude congratulated the young boy, and then asked for volunteers. There was a struggle from the seventeen-year-olds and eighteen-year-olds searching for the spot, and a couple sixteen-year-olds who thought that they could get there in time. She watched as the pushing ensued, and through this, chaos started to break out. One fell down and the one who pushed him tripped from the collision. Others struggled to get around the two of them, who were both forcing each other down and blocking the path.

They looked like animals, grappling in the middle of the aisle with other boys trying to circle around them in the small space provided. It was entertaining when she stood on the stage before them, like it was entertainment staged for her amusement.

One of the sixteen-year-olds pulled through the group of boys in their pile, tall and skinny, but obviously muscular. He made it to the stage first, striding confidently over to the microphone.

"Well, that was exciting," Claude commented with a grin—anything new and different at the reaping was exciting for the Capitolites, and certainly District Four tended to have different reapings since they didn't plan who volunteered ahead of time. The Academy in District Four was more of a private thing, with no way of receiving any sort of free entry through scholarships or help from the Academy itself. It was more disconnected from the affairs of the tributes, concerned only with training those who could pay to be there, so they didn't bother themselves with choosing the volunteers as well. "What is your name?"

"Dylan Waterhole," he said clearly, steadily, readily. She would watch him through training. She could tell he was determined—as all Careers were, but she felt there was some particular strength in him. Maybe the two of them could be the victors together. She didn't think she really cared who came out with her, so long as she came out on top.

The two of them were made to shake hands, being congratulated. The district clapped for them as they were presented with their tributes, the contenders that they were to root for in these Games. She looked out at the crowd before being herded into the Justice Building, seeing the waves of faces looking back at her and at Dylan, those wondering if these would be the two who returned, or if they would leave a hole in District Four before the coming weeks ended.

The Justice Building was very professional on the inside, but the furniture was nice. She noted when they took her into the elevator and finally into the room where she would be saying goodbyes that Stephanie had a similar couch at their house. Stephanie had good money and had always wanted the glory of raising a victor after she was unable to volunteer, so it wasn't like it was surprising that she poured her money into owning the nicest of things.

She assumed the only person coming in would be Stephanie, which was not disproved when her guardian entered the room. She always looked so regal: her shoulders back, her strides long, her arms down at her sides and moving gracefully with the rest of her. Parker aspired to be like her one day, aspired to emanate all of that same power. She had worked her whole life to achieve that.

"Parker," she said, a smile on her face as she sat down, her hands crossed in her lap. Even in the softest of moments, she had that professional aura on the edges of her actions and her words. There was a barrier there that Parker felt she had never been able to break, but she wondered if it would come down once Parker returned from the Games. She wondered if Stephanie was scared for her. She knew that she must have been, but sometimes it was hard to know exactly what Stephanie thought. "You did perfectly up on that stage."

Parker grinned, a warm swell of pride growing inside her chest. "I was concerned with what I was going to do when I got up there—"

"You did exactly as I would have," Stephanie told her, and that was no small compliment. Parker felt so good, felt like everything was going wonderfully. She felt on top of the world, actually, and she was ready to be launched into the arena immediately. She was ready to show her mentor everything else she could do. She didn't want to party around in the Capitol and waste time—there would be plenty of room for that once she had won.

They had a lot of time together, with no one else coming to say goodbye to Parker, and Stephanie reminded her of everything she would need to know in the upcoming weeks. She listened closely, despite knowing all of it like it was as easy as two plus two. It was ingrained into her, a part of her, and she enjoyed hearing it like a review for a test. But she was ready, and she knew the moment she stepped out of this Justice Building, she would walk as though she was already a victor.


End file.
